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Swazy  Folks 

And  Others 

Poems  by  JOHN  D.  WELLS 


WITH       DRAWINGS       BY 
ALBERT  MACK  STERLING 

Third  Edition 


BUFFALO 

HAUSAUER-JONES   PRINTING   COMPANY 
Publishers 


COPYRIGHT    I  908,  BY 

JOHN    D.    WELLS 


HAUSAUER-dONES  PRINTING  CO. 
BUFFALO,  N.  Y. 


Sfa  my  mtfe  and  little  oawjfyfrra 
book  of  wrap  10  affrrtuw- 
oeotrated.  3.  U.  W. 


Preface 

A  GOOD  friend  has  made  objections  to  the 
title  of  this  book,  saying:  "People  don't 
know  where  Swazy  is!"  O,  but  they  do! 
Every  one  has  his  Swazy — long  "a,"  please, 
as  in  "hayin'."  Every  one  knows  that 
Swazy  is  any  place  where  the  population  is 
sparse,  where  the  cider  mill  and  the  shingle 
factory  mark  the  line  where  the  village  leaves 
off  and  the  open  country  begins;  where 
"Town  Meetin'  "  and  Firemen's  Day  mark 
the  cycle  of  time;  where  quoit  pitching  in 
the  Methodist  churchsheds  and  Sam  Scrib- 
ner's  Wagon  Circus  leaven  honest  toil  and 
the  even-tenored  lives  of  the  village  "folks." 
O,  yes,  almost  every  man,  who  has  ever  made 
much  of  a  success  of  things,  came  from  a 
Swazy,  somewhere. 

As  for  "the  others,"  whose  lives  or  stories 
are  herein  rhymed,  they  are  people  whom 
we  have  all  met — soldiers,  range-riders, 
sailors,  ".gods  of  the  open  air."  Lastly, 
not  a  few  of  the  verses  are  about  children, 
the  merry  little  souls  who  stand  in  the  fields 
of  Youth  and  watch  us  as  we  pass  along  the 
Path  of  Reality,  turning  bright  faces  to  us 
for  the  instant  and  making  us  happier  for  it. 


These  verses  are  assembled  here  to  satisfy 
a  call  by  friends  to  see  some  of  the  poems  in 
permanent  form.  This  was  as  much  a 
surprise  to  their  sponsor  as  to  his  most  un 
friendly  critic,  and,  withal,  a  compliment  so 
flattering  that  it  demands  compliance.  For 
the  most  part,  the  verses  have  appeared  in 
a  special  column  on  the  editorial  page  of 
the  Buffalo  Evening  News,  called  "From 
Grave  to  Gay, "  which  it  has  been  the  author's 
pleasure  to  edit  for  the  past  five  years.  To 
the  owner  of  the  News,  Mr.  Edward  H. 
Butler,  the  writer  is  indebted  for  permission 
to  reprint  here,  as  well  as  for  many  kindnesses 
and  a  generous  friendship  that  has  made  his 
service  on  the  News  most  enjoyable. 

J.  D.  W. 


Contents 

Title  Page  No. 

"Howdy!" 15-16 

The  Dreamer    .          .          .          .          .          .          .17 

Bilin'  Sap      .......  18 

At  Court  .......       19 

Wishes  .......  20 

Old  Letters       .  ....       21 

The  Kettle  Song     .....         22-23-24 

The  Street  Musician  .....       25 

The  Town  Marshal         .....  26 

'Twixt  Seasons  at  Swazy    .....       27 

Leave  My  Dreams  to  Me        .         .  28-29-30-31 

Grandpa  .......       32 

Susan  Serepty  Perkins     .          .          .          .          .     33-34 

Brother  Mine    .......       35 

The  Children  of  Poverty  Lane          ...  36 

Old  Fire  Company    .....  37-38 

Lessons          .......          38 

A  Birthday        .....  -39 

The  Lonesome  Time  o*  Night  .          .   40-41-42-43 

The  Hushed  Voice     ......       44 

Vender  .......  45 

The  Conversazzhony  ....     46-47-48 

The  Blues     .......          49 

A  Song     ........       50 

In  the  Toy  Shop    ......     51-52 

Genywine  Joy  .          .          .          .          .          -53 

Triolet — To  Her    .....         54-55-56 

Pajamas  at  Traverse  ....  57~5% 

The  Chanty  Song  .....          59 


Title  Page  No. 

The  Windows  of  My  Memory     ....       60 

The  Old  Tramp  Printer          ....     61-62 

Doggone  Homesick    ......       63 

When  the  Last  Trumpet  Sounds      ...  64 

Ould  Barney  M'Ginn 65 

The  Old  Fishing  Hole    ....  66-67-68-69 

The  Tale  the  Stage  Driver  Told          .         .     70-71-72 
Discharged    .......     73~74 

A  Cowpuncher  and  Prayer          ....       75 

Jist  Loafin' 76 

In  Dreamland  ......       77 

A  Little  Girl  in  Gingham        .         .  78-79-80-81 

Far  Apart          .......       82 

At  Home 83-84-85 

The  Measure  of  a  Man      .....       86 

Mutterin'  Joe 87-88 

A  Soldier's  Appreciation     ....  89-90 

Defying  Age  ......          90 

Little  Lost  Child        .         .         .         .         .  91 

Understanding        ...  .          .  92 

Where's  He  At  ? 93 

The  Man  Who  Lost       .         .         .  94~95~96-97 

When  Pals  Must  Part        ....          98-99 

The  Happy  Man    ......          99 

Shadders  ......       100-101 

Old  Rosemont 102-103 

Winter  Mornin's         .         .         .         .          .       104-105 
Fall       ......  106-107-108 

The  Last  Edition 109 

Dan  M'Carty  of  the  Crossing  Squad         .  iio-in 

Gone  112 


Title  Page  No. 

Romancin'     ......  113-114 

The  Place  and  Time  for  Prayer  .  115-116 

Outweighing  All     .          .          .          .          .          .         116 

Old  Fashioned  Flowers       ....       117-118 

The  Folly  of  Superstition         .          .          .          .         119 

Ben  Tarr  Opines        ....         120-121-122 

The  Old  Back  Stoop       ....  123-124 

The  Nursery  Battle  ....       125-126 

The  Lonely  Man   ......         126 

Folks  Back  Home      ......     127 

Come  Back  Again  ....  128-129 

Christmas  Eve  in  the  Old  Manse         .          .        130-131 
An  Investment        .....  132-133 

John  Thompkins'  Fiddlin'  .  134-135-136-137 

Old  Ben  Tarr's  Idee 138 

A  Man     ........     139 

The  Martial  Band  from  Big  Elm  Flat      .  140-141 

Old  Ben  Tarr's  Filosofy 142 

An  Old  Man's  Deductions       ....         143 
The  Old  Home  Town         .          .  144-145-146-147 

Friends 148 

To  a  Boy          .......     149 

Going  to  Town  with  Pa  .         .     150-151-152-153 

Two  Songs        ....  .  154 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    15 


"Howdy!" 

T'M  shy  on  formal  greetin's  —  as  it's  give  me  tew 

•••     observe, 

Them  highfalutin'  kowtows  in  the  end  kin  on'y 

serve 
T'  make  a  man  suspicion,  who's  been  off  fer  quite 

a  dost, 
He's   jest  about    half  welcome,  er  th'ee  quarters 

at  the  most; 

I  tell  y'  what  I   'predate  if  I've  been  off  a  spell, 
An'  meet  some  man  er  uther  'at  I've  knowed  purty 

well, 
Is  when  he  gits  his  bearin's  and  he  sashays  up 

t'  me 
An'   grabs  me   by  the  flipper,  an'  then  he  sez  — 


It  ain't  no  satisfaction,  when  yer  back  from  furrin 

parts, 
T'  have  yer  nayburs  greet  ye  with  new-fangled 

Jelly  sartes  — 
There's   sumpthin'    "milk-an'-watery"   that  goes 

agin  my  grain 
In  them  'ere  sort  o'  greetin's,  makes  me  want  t* 

go  again  — 
A  sumpthin'  sort  o'   chilly  an'  onhullsome,   I'm 

doggone, 
That  allus  made  me  wonder  if  it  wasn't  jest  put 

on! 
They  ain't  no  fair  comparison,  that  I  have  ever 

heard, 
Betwixt  them  formal   things  y'  hear  an'  that  one 

friendly  word:  «HowJy/n 


16    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


There's  nuthin1  pitifuller,  than  a  man  'ats  got  t' 

roam — 
Er  nuthin'  more  pathetiker  than  when  a  man 

comes  home; 
I  'low  there's  sumpthin'  simple — sumpthin'  home- 

lylike — in  it, 

A  simple  sort  o'  greetin'  is  the  on'y  kind'll  fit; 
Jest  clasp  his  hand  in  yourn  an'  you  give  it  lots 

o'  heft, 
'N  he'll  think   you've  thought  about  him   ever' 

minnit  since  he  left, 
An'  now,    that  he  is  back  agin,  he's    welcome 

as  the  birds, 
Then  make  his  joy  completer  with  that  friendliest 

°fw°rds:    " 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    17 


The  Dreamer. 

said  he  lived  in  vain, 
But,  when  he  died, 
The  gentle  skies  shed  tears  of  rain — 
Those  skies  'neath  which  he  dreamed,  and  fain 
Would  roam  and  dream  beneath  again — 
And  children  cried. 

They  said  he  lived  for  none, 

But,  when  he  left, 

The  buds  that  'long  his  path  had  blown, 
And  all  he  loved  and  called  his  own, 
Did  bow  their  pretty  heads  and  moan 

Like  souls  bereft. 

They  cannot  see,  who  said 

He  lived  for  none, 

That  yonder  woodland  stream  that  led 
Along  the  path  he  loved  to  tread, 
Has  ceased  its  song  and  sighs  instead, 

For  one  who's  gone. 

They  cannot  know  who  play 

There  is  no  gain 
In  living  thus  each  joyous  day 
In  dreams  of  never-ending  May, 
They  cannot  know — or  would  not  say 

He  lived  in  vain! 


i8     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 

Bilin'  Sap. 

T"17"HEN  Natcher's  bustin'  out  her  pod, 

*  *      An'  thoughts  stirs  up  a  feller's  chest 
Of  spring,  an'  hawsses  turnin'  sod, 

O  them's  the  days  I  like  the  best! 
The  days  that  I  kin  shet  my  noise 

An'  jist  lay  back  an'  pitcher  pap 
An'  us  an*  all  them  Burton  boys 

In  Gullen's  woods     *     *     a-bilin'  sap! 

I  hain't  no  hand,  an'  never  was, 

T'  sling  air  native  langwidge  much, 
Ner  pitcher  dreams  ner  fancies,  'cause 

Y*  see  I  wa'n't  cut  out  fer  such; 
An'  days  like  this,  doggone  it,  I 

Kin  see  I  need  most  every  scrap 
Of  langwidge  tew  do  jestice  by 

A  day  like  this     *     *     an'  bilin*  sap! 

By  hick'ry,  I  kin  shet  my  eyes 

An'  see  that  camp  ez  plain,  I  vum! 
It  seems  such  mem'ries  never  dies 

But  sticks  to  us  twell  kingdom  cum! — 
An*  see  them  pails  an'  kettle  there, 

With  golden  sirup  bubblin*  in — 
It  allus  'minded  me,  I  sware, 

That  pancake  time  wud  cum  agin! 

I  s'pose  that  somewheres  there's  a  tree 

In  Gullen's  woods — not  more'n  one, 
Fer  Gullen's  woods  that  used  t'  be 

Air  all  cut  down  fer  ages  gone — 
I  s'pose  that  sumwheres  there's  a  tree, 

A  day  like  this,  that's  runnin*  sap; 
I  like  t'  think  it  weeps  fer  me, 

An'  all  them  Burton  boys — an'  pap! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    19 


At  Court. 

A  T  court  no  royal  splendor  rules, 
•^^     No  ermine  mantles  robe  the  King — 
His  crown  is  made  of  mother's  spools 
Encircled  on  a  gaudy  string. 

With  rattle-box  for  sceptre  he 
Makes  ready  for  his  kingly  nap, 

And  summons  each  to  bend  a  knee 
Before  the  throne  on  mother's  lap. 

For  we  the  monarch's  subjects  be — 
In  servitude,  abject,  we  kneel; 

A  weak  and  humble  legion,  we, 
Oppressed  beneath  his  rosy  heel. 

And  I  am  Jester  to  the  King! 

I  put  aside  my  tricks  and  wiles — 
A  jumping-jack  upon  a  string, 

It  takes  to  coax  the  monarch's  smiles. 

I  shake  my  jester's  bells  and  strings — 
The  monarch  shouts  in  childish  glee — 

His  laughter  through  the  nursery  rings 
Far  sweeter  than  a  king's  could  be. 

But,  hold,  we  bore  the  King,  I  own; 

"We  pray  the  Lord  his  soul  to  keep," 
Tread  lightly  here  around  the  throne — 

The  King's  asleep — the  King's  asleep! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Wishes. 

CJT4R  light,  star  bright, 
*~^     First  star  I've  seen  tonight— 
I  wish  I  may,  I  wish  I  might 
Have  the  wish  I  wish  tonight/ 

Wish,  you,  then,  my  little  elf, 
That  you  always  stay  yourself — 
Wish  to  keep  each  golden  curl — 
Be,  for  aye,  a  little  girl. 

Wish  to  keep  your  childish  glee, 
And  the  smiles  you've  smiled  for  me 
Wish  to  keep  your  bonny  eyes, 
Clear  and  blue  as  shining  skies. 

Wish  to  keep  your  lightened  heart, 
All  your  baby  charms  and  art — 
Keep  you  all  your  ways  and  wiles, 
Dimpled  hands  and  dimpled  smiles. 

Wish — I  would  that  it  could  be! — 
You  might  romp  for  aye  with  me, 
Through  the  day  from  early  dawn, 
As  you  are — until  I'm  gone! 

Star  light,  star  bright, 

first  star  I've  seen  tonight — 

/  wish  you  may,  I  wish  you  might 

Have  the  wish  I  wish  tonight/ 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Old  Letters. 

"CVADED  letters!  How  I  love  them! 
•*•      Why  they  seem  to  touch  a  string 
On  the  harpsichord  of  mem'ry 

'Till  the  hosts  of  angels  sing! — 
Sing  to  me  of  loved  ones,  and  the 

Hands  that  penned  each  loving  line, 
Seem  to  reach  across  the  chasm 

And  I  clasp  them  close  in  mine. 

Faded  letters!     From  a  sweetheart — 

From  a  mother,  dear  to  me — • 
From  a  brother,  and  another 

Far  across  the  briny  sea — 
From  a  wife,  she  sent  to  cheer  me 

In  a  strange  and  foreign  land, 
And,  the  best  of  all,  the  letter 

Where  she  traced  the  baby's  hand. 

Chubby  fingers!     How  I  loved  them! 

How  the  fleeting  years  efface! 
Or,  is  it  my  tears,  I  wonder, 

That  bedim  the  loving  trace  ? 
Though  the  cheerless  years  are  many 

Since  we  worshipped  at  his  shrine, 
Still  I  feel  those  little  fingers 

Close  around  this  heart  of  mine! 

Faded  letters!     How  I  love  them! 

Letters  from  my  loved  ones  and 
This,  the  best  of  all,  the  letter 

Where  she  traced  the  baby's  hand; 
Little  imprint  on  the  paper 

And  upon  my  heart,  I  fear, 
Sets  the  harpsichord  of  mem'ry 

Playing  music  sweet  to  hear! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Kettle  Song. 

I"  wish  the  kettle  would  sing  again 

Just  as  it  used  to  do; 
I  wish  it  would  sing  of  a  lion  slain — 
Of  a  pirate  crew  on  the  Spanish  main — 
Of  a  clipper  ship  on  the  sea-way,  high, 
With  a  cabin  boy  and  the  Boy  was  I — 
Just  as  it  used  to  do. 

I  wish  the  kettle  would  sing  again, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do, 
Of  a  little  girl  in  a  bonnet,  red, 
And  saved  by  a  prince  from  a  hydra-head 
That  lurked  in  the  corn   that  towered  high, 
And  the  girl  was  She  and  the  Prince  was  I— 

Just  as  it  used  to  do. 

I  wish  the  kettle  would  sing  again, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do — 
I  wish  it  would  sing  of  war's  alarms, 
The  booming  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms 
Of  a  blue-clad  boy  where  the  strife  ran  high 
With  face  to  the  steel  and  willing  to  die — 

Just  as  it  used  to  do. 

I  wish  the  kettle  would  sing  again, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do, 

The  lyrics  it  crooned  and  the  tales  it  told — 
But  the  hearth  is  chill,  and  the  years  are  old — 
The  fancies  it  whispered  have  all  taken  wing 
And  never  again  will  the  kettle  sing 

Just  as  it  used  to  do! 


The  Kettle  Song 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Street  Musician. 

A     vagabond  I     A  rover  in  the  street, 

A  derelict  upon  a  human  sea, 
And  scorned  by  those  who  passed  with  hurried  feet, 

Who  heeded  not,  nor  heard,  his  piteous  plea! 
But,  O  the  song  from  his  old  violin, 
It  reached  the  spot  my  mem'ries  linger  in! 

He  touched  the  strings  as  if  with  magic  bow, 
And  sweet  it  crooned  above  the  din  and  all; 

It  seemed  to  come  from,  O,  so  long  ago, 
Across  the  years,  a  sympathetic  call! 

It  sang  a  song  of  fields  and  pleasant  ways, 

And  faces  sweet  I  knew  in  other  days. 

It  called  across  the  tortuous  winding  span 
That  I  have  trod  so  long  with  wearied  feet — 

The  rocky  path  that  leads  from  boy  to  man; 
He  sang  the  song,  so  beautiful  and  sweet, 

That's  writ  for  those  who  have  to  sigh  and  roam; 

"I  Wonder,  Do  They  Miss  Their  Boy  At  Home  r" 

A  vagabond,  'tis  true,  but  glorified 

By  those  sweet  strains  from  his  old  violin, 

That  called  across  Time's  chasm,  deep  and  wide, 
And  reached  the  spot  my  mem'ries  linger  in! 

To  think,  this  homeless  soul  remembers  yet, 

While  I,  who  have  a  home,  so  soon  forget! 


26     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 

The  Town  Marshal. 

r  I  ''HE  time  the  corkus  'lected  Jim 
•*•      Town  marshal,  fokes  jumped  ont'  him, 
An'  'lowed  the  job  pervided  fer 
A  man  a  heap  more  compenter 
'N  what  he  wuz.     But  I-sez-I : 
"Well,  ennyway,  give  Jim  a  try"; 
(All  thue  the  army  him  an'  me 
Wuz  pardners,  so  I  knowed,  y'  see.) 

They  'low  he  hain't  no  great  success 
Ez  marshal,  an'  he  hain't,  I  gess; 
Fokes  criticize  him  'cause  he  plays 
"  Ol'  sledge"  an'  euchre  stormy  days 
An'  chillin'  nights,  with  them  'ats  in 
The  lockup  fer  some  triflin'  sin; 
But  they  don't  know,  ez  Jim  tells  me; 
"It  sort  o'  keeps  'em  company." 

When  Abner  cum  on  Widder  Crumb — 

Told  Jim  t'  fo'close  on  her  hum 

Fer  debts  her  man  made  'fore  he  died, 

Thare's  no  one  knowed  who  satisfied 

Ab's  claim,  er  cares  to,  nuther,  fer 

It  cleared  an'  saved  her  farm  fer  her — 

But  I've  got  strong  suspicionment 

Of  bow  an'  whare  Jim's  pension  went  ! 

Big-hearted,  hullsome,  ornery  Jim! 
If  fokes  jes'  knowed  ez  7  know  him, 
They'd  vote  fer  him  an'  vote  him  straight 
Fer  Keeper  of  the  Golden  Gate 
Er  'Cordin*  Angel,  er,  I  swear, 
Fer  a'most  enny  place  Up  Thare! 
(All  thue  the  army  him  an'  me 
Wuz  pardners,  so  I  knowed,  y'  see!) 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    17 


'Twixt  Seasons  at  Swazy. 

T  tell  y'  what  I  like  t'  do 

•*•     Along  when  March  is  gettin'  'thue, 

Er  Aprile's  just  beginnin' — 
The  cur'ousest  time  o'  all  the  year, 
When  winter's  gone  an'  spring  ain't  here, 

An'  snow  is  sort  o'  thinnin', 

I  like  t'  wander — romancin' — 
I  s'pose  they's  really  no  sense  in 

Such  takin's-on  an'  goin', 
But  yender  is  the  place  fer  me, 
Whare  ellums,  oaks,  an'  maples  be, 

An'  whare  the  southwind's  blowin'l 

It  seems  t'  whisper — that's  a  fack — 
O'  sum  ol'  friend  that's  cummin'  back, 

A-bringin'  loads  o'  treasure, 
O'  golden  sunshine,  greenest  grass, 
An'  wortermelons,  garden  sass, 

An'  all  in  heapin'  measure. 

It  hints  the  smallest  circumstence — 
A  Bob  White  on  the  pastcher  fence 

A-chirpin',  rich  an'  meller; 
An'  all  the  pleasures  yit  t'  cum 
A-straddle  this  southwind!  I  vum 

It  sort  o'  chokes  a  feller! 

From  ever'  tarnal  limb  so  bare 

The  sap's  a-drippin',  an'  though  there 

'S  no  way  of  mortils  knowin', 
I  believe  them's  tears  o'  joy,  by  cuss — 
That  Natcher's  glad  fer  spring  as  us — 

An'  that's  her  way  o'  showin'l 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Leave  My  Dreams  to  Me. 

r  want  but  little  here  below,  just  let  me  have 

my  dreams, 
And  you  may  keep  the  gold  and  dross,  and  all 

the  petty  schemes 
That  men  conceive,  in  Greed  and  Gain,  to  foist 

on  fellow  men — 

Just   let  me  be  a  pilgrim,  lone,  to  love  and  dream 
again 

Of  hollyhocks 
In  riot,  red, 
A  puncheon  floor — 

A  trundle  bed — 

And  things  I  love  and  cherish  now,  that  looked  so 
homely  then. 

Just  place  me  where  my  easy  chair  shall  face  the 

evening's  glow, 
Where  pictures  form  with  magic  art  as  fancies 

come  and  go, 
And  all  the  paths  that  lead   away  guide  weary 

pilgrims'  feet 

To    cottages   with    open    doors   where    love  and 
friendship  meet — 

A  humble  roof — 

The  song  of  birds — 
The  welcome  low 

Of  distant  herds, 

And  roses  grow  around  the  home  and  drip  their 
fragrance  sweet. 


The  Place  of  Dream 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


And    open  wide    the    ancient    door,    so    vagrant 

winds  that  blow 
May  bear  the  music  back  to  me — the  songs  of 

long  ago — 
And  echo    children's  voices — songs  of  happiness 

and  glee, — 

AH  silent  now  these  many  years — and  for  Eternity; 
Then  leave  me  here 

To  dream  and  rest, 
With  eyes  upon 

The  dying  west — 

Take  all   the  wealth  the  world   affords   but  leave 
my  dreams  to  me! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Grandpa. 

r\ranpa  Jones  has  turn  to  stay 
•^"^     Since  my  dranma  went  away- 
Tuz  it  ain't  so  lonesome  ez 
Whare  he  used  to  live,  he  sez; 
Tells  me  bestest  stories,  tuz 
They's  about  when  wartime  wuz! 

Wartime  wuz  long  time  ago 
'Fore  my  dranpa  ever  know 
Who  my  papa  wuz,  an'  he 
Didn't  know  my  ma  or  me 
When  the  wartime  wuz,  becuz 
We  wa'n't  here  when  wartime  wuz. 

Sumtimes  when  my  dranpa  goes 
Upstairs  where  his  hat  an'  clothes 
'At  he  weared  when  wartime  is, 
'S  packed  away  with  fings  of  his, 
I  peek  through  the  door  an'  see 
Mostest  fun  they  ever  be! 

Puts  his  fixin's  on  an'  nen 
Just  tromps  back  an'  forth  again 
'Fore  ma's  lookin'  glass  becuz 
'Ats  like  when  the  wartime  wuz; 
Nen  he  stops  an'  wipes  his  eyes — 
First  I  know  he  cries  an'  cries! 

'Nen  I  speak  to  him  an'  he 
Pats  my  head  an'  says  I  be 
'Staken — them  wuz  tears  of  joy; 
"Dranpa  never  cries,  my  boy!" 
Nen  we  bof  git  laffin'  nen 
Us  two  goes  down  stairs  again. 


SWAZY    FOLKS    AND    OTHERS  33 


Susan  Serepty  Perkins. 

(A  few  lines  of  appresheashun  of  one  of  Natcher's  noble- 
•wimmin  that  I've  knowed  fer  quite  a  spell  an'  have  wanted 
to  say  sumthin  about,  but  didn't  dast.  Now  she's  visitun 
out  to  her  mother's  cousin  in  lowy  and  I  don't  cakalate 
she'll  see  my  humble  efferts.) 

'THHEY  ain't  no  words  that's  got  a  edge 
•*•       'At's  soft  enuff,  in  langiwedge, 
T'  tell  her  virtues  as  they  be, 
Ner  give  no  adekate  idee 
Of  Widder  Perkin's  dorter  Sue, 
Ner  praise  her  as  I'd  like  t'  do. 

It  goes  way  back — less  see — about 
The  6o's  when  the  war  bruk  out 
An'  things  looked  dark  an'  drafts  begun; 
The  widder's  husband,  Sile,  was  one 
That  left  his  wife  an'  Susie,  then 
She  wasn't  more  n'  nine  er  ten. 

Just  thinkin'  on't,  seems  t'  me 

It  wa'n't  but  only  yisterdy 

I  heerd  the  fifes  cum  screechin'  down, 

An'  Himeses  Guards  frum  Burgettstown 

Marched  past  whare  Silas'  fambly  wep' 

An'  he  fell  in  an'  caught  the  step. 


34     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


I  see  him  yit,  as  plain  as  day, 
A-smilin'  in  his  happy  way — 
A-smilin'  as  he  kissed  each  head 
An'  helt  their  hands  a  spell,  an'  said, 
With  honest  tears  a-streamin'  thue: 
"Take  keer  o'  mother,  won't  y'  Sue." 

An'  then  he  went!     Fer  quite  a  spell 

They  wasn't  news  enuff  t'  tell 

Er  specify,  er  seemed  t'  keer 

How  fared  our  army  boys  frum  here, 

Till  Petersburg,  an'  then  it  said 

That,  'mongst  the  others,  Sile  was  dead! 

"Take  keer  o'  mother. "  Then  they  cum- 
Her  father's  words  when  he  left  hum 
An'  marched  away;  an',  lawsy  me, 
As  it's  been  given  me  t'  see, 
Rite  thare  her  girlhood  cum  t'  end 
An*  Susan  growed  t'  comprehend! 

"Take  keer  o'  mother."     All  these  years 
I  'low  them  words  's  rung  in  her  ears — 
In  Susan's  ears,  an'  there  at  hum 
She's  staid  an'  worked  an'  heeded  'em 
Like  me  an'  you  an'  ever'one 
Of  our  acquaintance  wouldn't  done! 

There's  sum  ol'  maids,  an'  then  again 
There's  sum  as  is  that  mightn't  been 
Onless,  like  Susan,  they  cud  view 
Their  duty,  plain,  an'  meet  it,  too; 
An'  if  she's  single  tain't  because 
She  hain't  been  asked — /  know  she  wasf 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    35 


Brother  Mine. 

JUST  like  we  used  to,  brother  mine, 
Let's  wander  back  again — 
Let's  turn  our  steps  from  busy  mart 
To  meet  there  where  our  pathways  part, 
And  then  go  back — my  hand  in  thine — 
Forgetting  we  are  men. 

Just  like  we  used  to,  brother  dear, 

Let's  link  our  hearts  with  joy, 
A-down  the  lanes  and  pleasant  ways 
We  knew  and  loved  in  boyhood  days — 
Forget  the  world  is  old  and  drear 
And  be  again  a  boy. 

Let's  wander  back  again,  we  two, 
Beside  the  silvery  stream — 
Beside  the  wood  where  mystery  lies — 
Beneath  the  kindly  summer  skies 
With  sunbeams  glancing  dancing  through, 
And  rest  again,  and  dream. 

Let's  wander  back  again  and  see 

The  homestead,  where,  today 
The  flowers  weep  for  one  Above 
And  seem  to  breathe  her  mother  love — 
She  cherished  them  so  tenderly 
Before  she  went  away! 

Let's  wander  back,  O  brother  mine, 

And  never  more  to  roam; 
With  all  our  boyhood  shrines  around 
Let's  kneel  beside  her  grassy  mound 
And  tell  her,  through  the  whisp'ring  pine, 
Her  children  have  come  home. 


36     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 

The  Children  of  Poverty  Lane. 

LITHE  little  spirits  of  Poverty  Lane, 

Down  through  the  years  they  come  running 


B 


again 


Faces  as  red  as  the  pokeberries'  glow, 
Happy  and  cheerful  as  any  I  know; 
Poverty  stricken  and  curbed,  but  it  seemed 
Never  to  darken  the  dreams  that  they  dreamed — 
Never  to  sadden  the  smiles  that  they  smiled — 
Want  touches  lightly  the  heart  of  a  child! 

Lived  in  the  huts  at  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
Back  from  the  road  where  the  landowners'  stood; 
Quaint  little  houses  with  little  above — 
Little  within  but  a  surfeit  of  love; 
Happy  and  cheerful  and  careless  and  free, 
Now  through  the  years  they  come  running  to  me — 
Still  they  are  happy,  their  smiles  never  wane, 
Dear  little  children  of  Poverty  Lane. 

Ho,  I  recall  them,  remember  them  still, 
Barefoot  and  happy,  afoot  to  the  mill — 
Grist  going  through,  or  the  wheel  going  'round, 
Gave  them  more  joy  than  verses  can  bound; 
Ho,  I  can  see  them  in  ginghams  that  glowed 
'Gainst  the  red  sumachs  that  guarded  the  road — 
Homeward  and  happy  they  trundled  again, 
Dear  little  children  of  Poverty  Lane! 

Dear  little  scions  of  poverty's  child, 
Blithe  as  a  bird  of  the  wood,  and  as  wild, 
Bubbling  over  with  laughter  and  glee, 
You  taught  a  lesson  'twas  lasting  to  me — 
Taught  me  'tis  best  to  forgive  the  world's  taunt — 
Taught  me  "be  happy  in  riches  or  want"; 
Ho,  I  am  happy  to  see  you  again, 
Dear  little  children  of  Poverty  Lane! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    37 

Old  Fire  Company. 

T  dreampt  last  night!     Hain't  it  the  beatenest 

•*•     The  things  a  feller'll  dream  about,  an'  jest 

Ez  natural-like,  an'  perfeck,  I  declare, 

A'most  ez  if  a  man  was  really  there! 

Like  when  I  dreampt  last  night,  I  seemed  t'  see 

Ez  plain  ez  day,  ol'  fi-er  company 

Of  volunteers  we  used  t'  have  'round  here 

That's  been  disbanded  now  fer  twenty  year. 

It  seemed  I  'us  back  a-sleepin'  'neath  the  eaves — 
The  night  was  still — so  still  the  lokus  leaves 
A-droppin'  on  the  roof,  I  heerd  wunct  more 
As  I  have  heerd  a  thousant  times  before; 
Somebody  passed — I  heerd  'em  holler  "Fi-er!" 
I  seemed  t'  see  the  flames  a-leapin'  higher, 
A  lurid  glow,  an'  then  I  heerd  the  call — 
The  fire  bell  in  air  ol'  Village  Hall. 

Well  I  tell  you,  it  wa'n't  no  circumstance, 
The  time  I  spent  a-gittin'  in  my  pants 
An'  histin'  up  my  winder,  no  sir-e-e-e 
An'  naybors'  folks  was  doin'  same  ez  me, 
A-histin'  up  their  winders  quick  ez  scat, 
An'  lookin'  out  an'  astin':  "Where's  it  at?" 
Till  someone  sed,  frum  where  he  stood  it  'peared 
"The  Baptist  sheds  was  burnin*  up,    he  feared." 

An'  then,  thue  all  my  dream,  cum  to  my  ears 
The  warnin'  bell  of  air  ol'  volunteers 
With  Hi  ahead,  an'  Henry  Smith  an'  Tup 
An*  others  takin'  holt,  ez  they  ketched  up 
Of  that  ol'  hand  injine.     It  seemed  that  it 
Fair  seemed  t'  snort  fer  jist  a  chanct  t'  git 
At  one  more  fire!  An'  then  cum  'Vester  Ladd 
Nigh  petered  out,  his  asthmay  got  so  bad! 


38  SWAZY    FOLKS    AND    OTHERS 


I  follered  'em  an'  legged  it  down  the  road, 
Like  years  ago  when  we  was  boys  an'  go-ed 
T'  fires  nights,  an'  never  missed  a  thing — 
A  habit  that  has  left  us  now,  I  jing! 
An'  there  they  was,  a-fightin'  flames  again 
An'  Hi  a-callin'  loudly:     "Water,  men!" 
***** 

Them  words  they  woke  me  up  an',  jiminey, 
'Twas  stormin'  hard,  an    rainin    in  on  me! 


Lessons. 

T    RECKON  y'll  find  wharever  y'  look 

A  lesson  in  all  that  y'  see, 
As  I  allus  do.     That  ornery  'Ras  Jones, 

He  larned  a  lesson  t'  me 
When  he  seed  a  beetle  sprawled  out  on    its  back 

'N  he  stopped;  "I  reckon,"  sez  'Ras, 
"I'll  turn  him  over  and  give  him  a  chanct 

With  other  bugs  in  his  class." 

It's  a  tolo'ble  world — a  purty  fair  world, 

But  a  heap  less  o'  smiling  than  tears, 
'N  it's  all  our  own  fault.   When  a  man  sort  o'  fails 

It  seems  as  if  nobody  keers; 
Y'  cud  help  it  a  lot — jist  give  him  yer  hand 

'N  remember  that  lesson  of  'Ras  — 
Stand  him  up  on  his  laigs  and  give  him  a  chanct 

With  other  men  in  his  class! 


SWAZY    FOLKS   AND    OTHERS  39 

A  Birthday. 

OHE'S  six  today!   She   climbed    my   knee   and 

^     twined  her  arms  about  me,  so, 

And  whispered  to  me,  joyously:    ."I  bet  you  dad, 

that  you  don't  know 
What  day  this  is!"     I   feigned  to  think,  though 

well  I  knew  what  she  would  say, 
And  shammed  surprise  when  she  exclaimed:  "I'm 

growing  up — I'm  six  today!" 
What  is  it,  when  the  years  come  on,  that  holds  a 

man  and  makes  his  heart 
To  soften  toward  a  little    child    and  makes  the 

tears  so  quick  to  start! 

I  had  not  noticed  it  before!    I  did  not  think  until 

today! 
Her  playroom's  strangely  silent  now,  her  paper 

dollies  laid  away! 
The  little  finger  marks  we  loved  are  gone  from 

off  the  window  sill — 
Beneath   the   blossomed   apple  tree  the  swing  I 

made  is  strangely  still, 
And  silence  hovers  'round  the  house,  unbroken 

by  her  childish  glee — 
She's  six  today,  and  growing  up!     No  more  a 

little  babe  to  me! 

You're  six  today!    Come,  kiss  your  dad  and  hug 

him,  too,  you  little  elf, 
And  romp  with  him  and  play  with  him  nor  ask 

him  why  he's  not  himself! 
Just  follow  him  where'er  he  goes  and  let  him  take 

your  little  hand — 
Don't  ask  him  what  he's  thinking  of — you  wouldn't 

know  or  understand! 
Let's  go  together  down  the  lane,  a-romping  in 

your  child-heart  way — 
We  cannot  play  like  this  for  long!  You're  growing 

up — you're  six  today! 


40  SWAZY    FOLKS    AND    OTHERS 


The  Lonesome  Time  o'  Night. 

HPHERE  is  sometimes  in  the  evenin'  jist  beyant 
•*•  the  aidge  of  day 

When    the    whipperwills   is  "whipperwillin" 

yender  in  the  gum, 
An'  the  cattle  air  a-chankin'  in  their  shif'less  sort 

o'  way, 
An*  most  ever'thing  that's    kumpany  is  sort 

o'  laid  out  dumb — 
Oh,  it's  then  a  feller's  feelin's  seem  t'  sumhow 

gee  an*  haw, 
An'  there's  sumpin  seems  t'  bubble  up  an' 

clog  his  wizzen  tight — 
Mother  takes  my  hand  in  hern  an'  she  kind  o' 

whispers:     "Paw, 

Ain't  this     *     *     *     *     a  lonesome  time  o' 
night." 

Round   the    house  there's   shadders   flittin' —  we 

can't  see  'em,  maw  er  me, 
But  there's  sumpin  tells  the  both  of  us  they 

hover  'round  our  chair — 
Of  a  little  brood  o'  childurn  Heaven  sent  t'  sich 

as  we, 
An'  we   loved  'em  O  so  happy-like   untwell 

He  took  'em  There  ! 
An'  it   left  us   sort  o'  gropin*  fer  the  things  we 

cudn't  see; 
Though  I'm    past    a-faultin'  Providence,    it 

didn't  seem  jist  right — 

An*  I  know  that  maw  thinks  on  it  when  she  whis 
pers  low  t'  me: 

"Ain't  this     *     *     *     *     a  lonesome  time  o' 
night." 


The  Lonesome  Time  o'  Night 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    43 


We  are  agein,'  me  an'  mother,  an'  we're   turnin' 

in  the  lane — 
We  are  reachin'  what  the  deacon  calls  the  end 

o'  airthly  strife; 
An'  this  silent  evenin'  hour  now,  strikes  me  purty 

plain 
As  the  correspondin'  time  o'  day  that  we  have 

reached  in  life, 

An'  we  hain't  a  chick  ner  grandchild  for  t'  sum- 
how  sort  o'  save 
These  'ere  few  remainin'  minits  an'  to  smile  an' 

make  'em  bright; 

An*  I  know  that  maw  thinks  on  it  when  she  whis 
pers  to  me:     "Dave 

Ain't  this     *     *     *     *     a  lonesome  time  o' 
night 


44     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Hushed  Voice. 


mother  said  —  it  didn't  matter  then, 
A  loving  word,  perchance,  and  then  again, 
When  childish  wrath  came  in  our  simple  play 

And  little  woes  beset  Youth's  rosy  way, 
Her  sweetly  gentle  words  dispelled  the  wrath, 

And  coaxed  the  buds  to  bloom  along  our  path; 
Her  voice  was  sweet  to  greet  the  morning  sun, 

And,  sweeter  still,  when  Golden  Days  were  done, 
Her  soft  good  night  that  sent  us  to  our  bed  — 

It  didn't  matter  then  —  what  mother  said. 

It  didn't  matter  then,  but  now  she's  gone 

The  world  lacks  all  its  sweetness,  and,  at  dawn 
The  sunbeams,  coming  down  from  Heaven's  dome, 

But  emphasize  the  loss  from  out  the  home; 
No  kindly  smiles  to  cheer  the  passing  day  — 

No  mother-words  to  guide  us  on  the  way  — 
No  loving  arms  that  wait  but  to  enfold 

When  world  and  all  grow  merciless  and  cold; 
The  Kingdom  There,  I  think,  is  made  of  such  — 

What  mother  said!    O    now  'twould  mean  so 
much! 


SWAZY    FOLKS    AND    OTHERS          45 


'Vender." 

44TT'S  better  hoein'  yender — 

•^     Fer  they  ain't  no  stones  t'  hender," 
The  words  that  Silas  Higginbotham  allus  sez  t'  me; 
"Th'  patch  that  we're  a-hoein' 
Is  th*  wust  they  is  a-goin* — 
It's  better  over  yender,  boy,"  Silas  sez,  sez  he. 

"Th'  clouds  is  breakin'  yender — 

I  was  'feared  th'  shower  'd  hender 
Air  work  t'day,"  sez  Silas,  kind  o'  happy-like,  t'me; 

"I  thort  th'  rain  had  found  us, 

But  I  gess  it's  goin'  'round  us — 
A-goin'  way  off"  yender,  boy,"  Silas  sez,  sez  he. 

Lor'  bless  sich  men  ez  Silas, 

Teachin'  trouble  not  t'  rile  us — 
Lor*  fill  'em  full  o'  blessin's  jist  ez  full  eztheykin  be; 

Them  folks,  so  good  an'  tender, 

That  see  better  things  off  yender, 
Th'  same  ez  Silas  Higginbotham  allus  shows  t'  me! 


SWAZY    FOLKS   AND    OTHERS 


talk 
purty 


'  *  The  Conversazzhony . ' 

A     "  conversazzhony "  is  a  certain  line  o' 
•*•  ^     At  which  a   man  with  work  t'  do  is 

apt  t'  balk; 
It  takes  frum  four  t'  six  or  eight  who'd  ruther  loaf 

than  not — 

Whose  ock-y-pation  principally  is  keepin'  chair- 
seats  hot; 
'Twas  started  by  a  poet  wunct — the  late  laymented 

Field— 
(Of  all  his  seeds  o'  trubble  it  has  showed  the 

biggest  yield!) 
The  which  is  appertainin'.     Why,  I'll  bet  Field's 

heart  repines 
If  he  has  heard  of  that  one  we   pulled  off  at  Bob 

Devine's ! 

There   was    Bates,    that    quiet    oracle    of  wagon 

circus  days, 
An'  Arlt,  who    has    Munchausen   beat   in   forty 

different  ways, 
An*   Willyums,    who    has    frequent    ranged    from 

here  t'  Timbuctoo, 
An'  Phillips,  Kell  of  "Lunnon,  West,"  and  Joey 

Murray,  too; 
But  they  was  merely  nominal,  who  cum  t'  see — an' 

saw — 
The  ones  who  railly  give    our  "conversazzhony" 

eclcnu 
Was  one  named  Martin  Talbot,  who  cum  here 

frum  County  Clare, 
An'  Kempner,  late  of  Palestine,  who  ock-y-pied 

the  chair. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    47 


We  settled  of  the  tarriff  as  sich  meetin's  allus  do — 
At  10  o'clock  we'd  fixed  up  all  the  worldly  ills 

but  two! 
The  neb-u-lar  hy-poth-e-sis  was  pendin'  with  us 

still, 
When   suddint-like  we   switched   an*   traced   the 

tribes  o'  Israel; 
An'  then  there's  sumthin*  happened  that  I  cayn't 

nowise  explain, 
An'  ever'  time  I  think  on  it,  it  gives  me  rackin' 

pain! 
Jist  like  a  fork  o*  lightenin'  it  cum  a-crashin* 

through — 
Our  chairman,  Simon  Kemfner,  sed  Saint  Patrick 

was  a  yew  ! 

You've  seen  Missury  mules  that  was  startled  in 

their  rest  ? 
You've  set  down  absent-minded  on  a  yaller-jacket's 

nest  ? 
You've  braved  a  buck-sheep  stampede  when  they 

cum  in  twos  an'  threes  ? 
You've   give    min-ute    attenshun    to   the   bizness 

ends  o'  bees  ? 
If  not  I'm  wastin'  paper,  fer  no  common  ornery 

pen 
Pervides  no  real  ideer  of  what  happened  there 

an'  then! ! 
The  airtb   it  turned  an'  sashayed,  an'  the  air  a 

greenish  hue, 

When  chairman  Simon  Kemfner  sed  Saint  Patrick 
was  a 


48     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Dutch  made  fer  the  cellar  an*  us  natives  fer 

the  stairs, 
An'  left  our  tales  behind  us  with  our  coats  an' 

vacant  chairs, 
The  English  jined  the  Germans,  an' the  Swedes 

went  up  above, 

Our  chairman  took  t'  cover  'neath  a  cordial  red- 
hot  stove! 
Within  that  cleared  em-por-ium,  a  sight  fer  gods 

so  rare, 
We  caught  a  glimpse  o'  Talbot,  who  cum  here 

frum  County  Clare, 
An*  swearin'  by  the  powers  that  if  Simon's  tale 

was  right — 
That   Patrick  was  a   Semite — he  wud  faint  the 

emerald  white  ! 

ENVOI. 

The  certain  sort  o'  moral  that  I've  aimed  fer  in 

these  lines 
Is    "the    place    fer  conversazzhonies "   is  not  in 

Bob  Devine's, 
Ner  ennywhere  ner  ennytime,  with  safety,  I'll  be 

bound, 
When  there's  a  Semite  in  the  chair  an'  Irishmen 

around  / 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    49 


The  Blues. 

nr*ELL  you  what,  but  yesterday 
I  wuz  blue! — git  that-a-way 
Jist  about  so  often,  an* 
Lord,  how  it  upsets  a  man! 

When  I  had  that  tarnal  fit 
'Bout  ez  bad  ez  I  cud  git, 
Heerd  a  man  cum  up  behind 
Thumpin'  long  the  pathway — blind! 

Blind  's  a  stun!     An*  durn  my  hide 
He  was  chipper  too,  beside 
What  I  wuz,  an*  cudn't  see 
Railly  why  the  blues  shud  be! 

To  myself  I  sez,  sez  I : 
"You're  too  durned  ongrateful,  Hi — 
'Pears  you'd  orter  have  your  pants 
Kicked  beyant  all  circumstance!" 

Then  the  sun  shun  out  on  high 
Drivin'  out  the  blues,  an'  I 
'S  glad  I  wa'n't  that  man  behind, 
Thumpin'  'long  the  pathway — blind  I 


50  SWAZY    FOLKS   AND   OTHERS 


A  Song. 

"CV\R  set  in  all  this  Song  of  Life 

That  thrills  our  hearts  and  tones  the  strife, 

There  is  a  dainty  measure — 
A  pleasant,  soft  and  happy  trill 
To  match  the  song  of  Whip-o'r-Will; 
It's  sadly  sweet  and  distant,  still, 

It  ever  sings  of  pleasure. 

Above  the  ribald  song  of  Greed, 
Above  the  wail  of  Tears  and  Need, 

It  soars,  ever  higher; 
As  clear  as  bells  or  pipes  of  Pan, 
It  sings  a  song  to  every  man 
Of  woodlands,  still,  where  brooklets  ran, 

Of  running  vines  and  briar. 

As  wild  a  song  as  mind  could  dream, 
It  sings  some  merry,  madcap  theme, 

Then  softly  dropping,  toning, 
It  croons  of  amber  autumn  days, 
Or  of  a  cot,  where  childhood  plays 
By  clover  fields  and  pleasant  ways, 

And  burdened  bees  a-droning. 

Alone,  in  all  this  Song  of  Life, 
This  dainty  measure  tempers  strife 

And  smooths  the  roughest  places — 
A  strain  as  clear  as  silver  bells 
That  echoes  through  sweet  mem'ry's   dells 
And  seeks  us  out — the  song  that  tells 

Of  other  days  and  faces. 


In  the  Toy  Shop. 

T  MET  him  alone  in  the  toy  shop, 

•••    A  pixy  all  dimples  and  curls  and  eyes, 

Reflecting  there,  like  a  dewey  drop, 

His  cheery  face  and  his  glad  surprise; 
He  took  my  hand  and  he  led  me  through 

The  Land  of  Tinsel  and  Penny  Schemes — 
He  didn't  know,  but  he  led  me  to 

The  cherished  land  of  my  boyhood  dreams! 

What  wondrous  sights  are  there  to  see — 

The  beasts  and  birds  of  the  farthest  climes, 
Ferocious  and  stealthy,  yet  seem  to  be 

All  set  to  the  music  of  soothing  rhymes; 
What  wondrous  books  in  the  Land  of  Boysl 

What  marvelous  tales  of  the  witches  told! 
How  much  there  is  in  the  Land  of  Toys 

To  cheer  a  heart  that  seems  growing  old! 

We  wandered  alone,  we  two,  by  ways 

That  led  us  by  castles  of  gold  and  paint, 
And  on  and  on  till  the  world  was  haze 

And  din  of  traffic  was  far  and  faint; 
We  came  to  a  strange  uncharted  moat 

Where  leaden  soldiers  stood  guard,  and  then 
We  sailed  away  in  a  pea-green  boat 

To  lands  of  Never  Can  Be  Again, 


52    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


We  floated  on  'neath  the  dreamiest  skies, 

Past  islands  of  wood  and  painted  grass, 
And  fishes  looked  up,  in  dumb  surprise, 

From  sea-green  depths  of  a  looking-glass; 
The  breezes  veered,  and  we  turned  our  prow, 

His  chubby  hands  brought  our  ship  to  stop, 
The  anchor  dropped  o'er  our  painted  bow — 

At  home  at  last  in  the  Toy  Shop! 

But  O  what  we  saw  in  that  wondrous  land, 

Not  strange  that  it  wearied  a  lad  so  small  I 
He  pillowed  his  head  on  my  shoulder  and 
Went  out  of  the  world  of  tinsel  and  all; 
Ah,   sleep   little  chap,  where  the  fairies  spin  gold, 
May  dreams  never  end  and  your  youth  never 

stop — 

Today  you  have  taught  me  this  heart  isn't  oldl 
Bless  all  little  boys  and  the  toy  shop! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    53 


Genywine  Joy. 


,  yo-hey,  a  lazy  day 
With  sky-fleece  skimmin'  over 
The  fields  an'  trees,  an'  honey  bees 

A-dippin'  in  the  clover; 
Then  sky  an'  sod's  akin  to  God, 

An*  ever'thing  of  beauty 
'LI  smile  at  you  —  an'  mean  it,  too  — 
As  if  it  was  a  duty. 

0  them's  the  times  I  live  in  rhymes  — 
When  Natcher  seems  to  grow  'em; 

When  all  y*  see  '11  seem  t'  be 

A  part  of  Natcher's  poem; 
When  weed  an'  rose  an'  all  that  grows, 

An'  yeller  birds  a-winging, 
An'  fields  an'  trees  an'  honey  bees 

Was  fairly  made  fer  singing! 

1  allus  feel  I  want  t*  steal 

Out  yenderwards  an'  waller  — 
Stretch  out  sum  place  an'  squint  my  face 

An'  watch  the  sky-fleece  foller; 
An'  loaf  a  bit  —  an'  dream  of  it  — 

It  makes  me  feel  fergivin'  — 
I  'predate  my  happy  state 

An*  much  oUeeged  fer  livin'/ 


54     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Triolet— to  Her. 

X1[7"HEN  she  comes  tripping  down  the  street 
*  *       I  fear  I  lose  my  head  a  bit — 

So  blithely  move  her  dainty  feet; 

(She  is,  in  truth,  a  coquette  sweet!) 

It's  always  me  she  comes  to  meet — 
My  heart  is  lost — she's  captured  it; 

When  she  comes  tripping  down  the  street 
I  fear  I  lose  my  head  a  bit  I 

She  gives  me  first  a  dainty  kiss; 

To  hide  my  joy  I  do  not  strive; 
My  word,  but  she's  an  artful  miss 
To  win  me  thus  with  just  a  kiss — 
No  shallow,  passing  love-match  thisl 

It  may  be  bold,  but,  sakes  alive, 
Why  should  she  not  greet  me  like  this, 

You  see,  she's  mine — and  only  five  ! 


The  Coquette 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    57 


Pajamas  at  Traverse. 

TOE   FULLER  wuz  a  decent  cuss  an'  good  t' 
•^     man  er  beast — 

Abarrin'  sum  ascendents  that  was  livin'  in  the  East 
He   cudn't  nowise  help  ner  stand — he  w'an't  t' 

blame,  y'  know — 
They  wa'n't    no    man    on    Stinkin'     Creek    more 

peaceabler  than  Joe; 
The  effete   East  's  what  broke  him — it  will  any 

man,  I  gess; 
His  doom  cum  in  a  package  that  he  got  by  Hank's 

express. 
He  got  a  stock  o'  licker,  an*  with  package  on 

his  arm, 
He  lit  straight  out  o'  Traverse  like  he'd  answered 

hell's  alarm! 

'Tware  jest  th'  day  a-followin'  'n  purty  nigh  ez 

hot  's 
That  other  place,  when  all  us  boys  at  Sandy  Bill's 

heerd  shots 
'N  a  cloud  o'  dust  was  cumin'  down  th'  trail  frum 

Stinkin'  Creek — 
A-howlin',  shootin',  sumthin'  that  wuz  actin'  like 

ol'  Nick! 

'N,  stranger,  it  went  by  us  like  a  striped  an'  check 
ered  streak! 
Bill  Sanders   (he  wuz  marshal  then)  allowed  t' 

take  a  peek, 
JN  turned  so  white  thet  common  chalk  wud  marked 

him  black  ez  coal, 
"Onless  I'm  goin'  daffy,  boys,  that  streak  that 

passed  wuz  Joel!" 


58     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


'N  Joe  it  wuz!     'N,  stranger,  how  he  scandalized 

that  town 
In  them  ondecent  clothes  of  his  a-ridin'  up  an* 

down 
An*  drunk  ez  seven    dollars,  an'  ashootin'  every 

chance — 
'N  (shameful  cuss)  a-wearin'  of  his  shirt  outside 

his  pants! 
His  outfit  it  wuz  striped,  an*  thinks  I :     "Th*  durn 

galoot 
'S  been  shootin'  up  sum  China  boy  'n  took  his 

clothes  t'  boot!" 
We  thought  he'd  gone  plum  loco  an'  when  Joe  rode 

past  agin, 
We  plugged  him.      When  we  reached  him  why 

poor  Joe  wuz  cashin'  in! 

He  'lowed  that  he  forguve  us — sez:  "I  gess  yew 

boys  dun  right — 
I  wore  these  togs  in  daytime  but  I  gess  they're 

meant  fer  night; 
But   bear  in  mind,  yew    fellers,  if  yew  see  their 

likes  agin, 
Back  East  they're  called  *  pajammers,'"  an'  with 

that  poor  Joe  cashed  in! 
We  buried  him  at  Traverse  an*  we  marked  it  with 

sum  boards — 
Th'  words  w'an't  literary,   but   th'    best   cowland 

affords; 
We  cut  'em  with  a  Barlow:  "Here  lies  Highfalutin' 

Joe — 
He  wore  th'  first  pajammers  west  of  Kansas  City, 

Mo." 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    59 


The  Chanty  Song. 

T  watched  at  the  tide  where  a  good  ship  lay 
•*•     So  eager  to  be  on  her  trackless  way — 
I  heard  the  song  of  her  toiling  crew, 
The  chanty  her  sail  was  lifted  to: 

"Yo —  yo  he — yo  he-e-e — 
Born  of  the  bounding  sea — 
Clear  and  away 
Of  the  land  today — 
Yo —  yo  he —  yo  he-e-e — " 
And  all  together  they  hauled  it  home, 

Till,  white  as  snow  against  Heaven's   dome, 
It  spread  to  the  breeze  for  the  homeward  run 
On  the  golden  path  of  the  setting  sun. 

That  men,  the  spawn  of  this  worldly  strife, 
Might  take  the  chanty-men's  way  of  lifel 
And  make  the  road,  as  they  go  along, 
An  easier  one  with  a  chanty  song: 
"Yo —  yo  he —  yo  he-e-e — 
Each  a  brother  be, 
Ever  to  seek 
And  help  the  weak — 
Yo —  yo  he —  yo  he-e-e — " 
And  pull  each  man  for  the  other's  good, 

Till  life  is  one  sweet  brotherhood, 
And  we  hoist  our  sails  for  the  Homeward  run 
In  the  Golden  Path  of  the  Setting  Sun! 


60     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 

The  Windows  of  My  Memory- 

rT**HE  windows  of  my  mem'ry,  overlooking  gar- 
•*•      dens  fair 
Where  dear  old  friends  and  faces  live  among  the 

blossoms  there — 
Where   all   the  recollections  that  I've  cherished 

tenderly, 
Have  lived  in  tinted  roses  and  are  blooming  just 

for  me. 

They  look  out  on  the  mountains'  tops,  the  valleys 

and  the  streams, 
Where  childhood,  O  so  happy,  lived  that  distant 

day  of  dreams — 
Where  things  so  poor  and  homely,  all  became  a 

cherished  part 
Of  Love,  and  lingered  ever  in  a  weary  wand'rer's 

heart. 

They  look  out  on  the  passes,  and  the  lanes  and 
quiet  ways, 

Where  daisies  kissed  my  weary  feet  in  those  all- 
golden  days — 

The  pathway,  so  seductive,  leading  to  the  world 
of  men — 

Another,  leading  homeward,  that  I'll  never  trod 
again ! 

The  windows  of  my  mem'ry!    Each  precious  little 

square 
Reflects  some  cherished  picture  that  I  knew  and 

loved  Back  There — 
Fair  visions  that  I  fain  would  keep,  but  gradually 

they  wane — 
I   cannot    see  beyond  the  tears  that  splash  the 

window  pane! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    61 


The  Old  Tramp  Printer. 

(The  reflections  of  a  country  editor.) 

''I "'HE  old  tramp  print!    What's  come  o'  him, 
•*•     Who  dropped  around  'bout  wunst  a  year 
In  rimes  gone  by  ?    That  cherubim 

We  use  t'  see,  half  full  o'  cheer 
An'  railroad  cinders — land  o'  love 

He's  tail's  a  pole  an'  jest  as  ga'nt, 
And  looked  like  sixteenth  cousin  of 

Sum  boardin'  house,  er  rest-er-rantl 

He'd  walk  right  in  an*  git  t'  biz 

An'  choose  sum  absent  feller's  case 
Ferever  like  the  shop  was  his 

An'  that  was  his  pre-empted  place, 
An'  never  say  a  word!    But  then 

It  allus  seemed  he'd  timed  it  so'st 
He'd  git  to  us  most  usual  when 

We  seemed  t'  want  an'  need  him  most. 

The  dust  of  many  climes  lay  brown 

Upon  his  shoes;  he  used  t'  say 
That  some  was  there  from  every  town 

From  Maine  t'  Cal-i-forn-i-a; 
Perhaps  his  morals  wa'n't  the  best, 

Ner  enny  speshul  good  t'  us, 
But  we  could  overlook  the  rest 

In  such  an'  interestin'  cuss. 


6a    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


There  has  been  times,  in  twilight,  when 

He  felt  right  lonesome  here,  I  gess, 
'Mongst  strangers,  when  he'd  take  my  pen 

An'  write  rare  lines  of  tenderness, 
Of  mother,  home  an'  faces  fair 

An'  fadin'  dreams  of  other  days, 
An'  then  I've  knowed  some  good  was  there 

Behind  his  wild  an'  rovin'  ways! 

But  now  he's  gone,  an*  sometimes  when 

The  paper's  out  an'  all  is  still, 
I  seem  t'  hark  back  there  again, 

An'  my  ol'  wizzen  seems  t'  fill; 
He  wa'n't  just  what  a  man  should  be — 

No  doubt  o*  that — but  when  I  look 
There's  sumthin*  hurts  me  when  I  see 

That  "30"  's  missin'  off  his  hook! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    63 


Doggone  Homesick! 

(Lmes  written  on  the  final  leaf  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley's 
"  Farm  Rhymes.") 

'THHE  book  is  shet!  I've  closed  the  kivers  down, 
•*•      It  seems  t'  me  on  friends  ez  real  an'  true 
Ez  them  I  knowed  afore  I  moved  t'  town, 

An'  nigh  fergot — the  simpul  fokes  'at  you 
Have  set  t'  rhyme  without  no  jarrin'  soun', 
So  keerlesslike — an'  swe  ter  fer  it,  too. 

The  book  is  shet,  an'  still  the  rhyme  child  romps 
Acrost  each  page,  ez  happy-like  ez  when 

He  helt  my  hand,  an'  ol'  Ben  Johnson  tromps 
His  fiddle  strings,  ez  dreamylike  ez  then; 

An'  list'nin'  I  kin  hear  'em  callin'  Thomps, 
An'  paw  an'  maw,  frum  Bethel  Hill  again! 

The  book  is  shet!     I  feel  jist  like  I  feel 
When  evenin'  ends  a  shinin'  Apurl  day — 

There's  sumpthin'  in  it  allus  seems  t'  keel 
My  feelin's  down,  like  dolls  on  circus  day 

At  three  fer  five;  I  swan,  I  want  t'  steal 
Back  home  again,  an'  never  cum  away! 


64     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


When  the  Last  Trumpet  Sounds. 

Iwunder  when  the  bugle  blows  its  last  endurin' 
blast, 
'N  every  man  has  answered — that  is,    every   man 

that  dast — 
'N  the  angel  band   is  waitin'  for  the  final  word  to 

march, 

Who'll  be  the  men  t'  lead  us  through  the  portals 
of  the  Arch  ? 

Will  it  be  them  that  allus  was    conspicous    here 

below — 
The  presudents  'n  statesmeners  'n  such  as  them 

y'  know  ? 
P'r'aps  it  will,  but,  durn  it,  it  won't  seem  a  fair 

divide — 
It  'pears  t'  me  that  their  reward  come  'fore  they 

up  an'  died. 

I've  pitchered  that  'ere  spirit  host  an'  allus  there 

has  been 
Away   in    front,  a-leadin'  'em,  a  band    o'    joyous 

men — 
Them  patient  chaps  that  waited   fer  reward   till 

they  was  dead — 
Who  lived  their  lives  an*  done  their  best  an'  never 

got  ahead. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    65 


Ould  Barney  M'Ginn. 

A  JOLLY  ould  man  was  Barney  McGinn! 
His  spharklin'  blue  eyes  had  the  blarney  in — 
A  bit  of  a  poipe  hangin'  over  his  chin — 
An'  an  ould  white  hat, 
An'  a  woide  cravhat, 
An'  there  yez  have  loikes  of  ould  Barney  McGinn. 

He  sorreyed  wid  naybours  whose  hours  was  sad, 

An'  sharin'  the  joys  of  thim  thot  was  glad; 

He  looked  on  the  good  and  looked  over  the  bad; 

An'  the  divil  a  wurrd 

Has  a  man  iver  hurrd 
Agin  the  ould  man  since  he  grew  from  a  lad. 

His  greetin*  was  glad  as  the  flowers  of  June, 

As  cheerful  in  mornin'  as  night  or  at  noon; 

"The  top  of  the  morn  t'  yersilf,  gossoon — 
'Tis  a  sphlendid  day," 
Thin  he'd  go  on  his  way, 

The  tap  of  his  cane  always  playin'  a  chune! 

A  storm  sthruck  the  church  an'  burned  it  wan  day- 
An'  paypul  moved  out  an'  the  priest  wudn't  sthay, 
An'  naught  in  the  parish  but  wint  to  decay, 

But  the  divil,  I'm  blist, 

Was  a  bit  of  it  missed, 
Till  pore  ould  Barney  McGinn  wint  away! 

The  happy  ould  fellah  wid  poipe  on  his  chin, 

His  jolly  blue  eyes  wid  the  sun  shinin'  in; 

The  childer  cry  for  him,  an'  wimin  an'  min, 
An'  the  place  ain't  the  same 
Since  the  Black  Hunter  came 

An'  tuk  off  the  shmile  of  ould  Barney  McGinn. 


66    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Old  Fishing  Hole. 

"V7"OU  sing  the  song  of  the  meadows  who  will, 
•*•      The  songs  of  the  sumach  and  daisies  and 

clover, 
Songs  of  the  pathway,  the  highroad  and  hill 

Where  clouds  of  the  summer  drift  lazily  over — 
I'll  sing  a  song  of  the  old  "fishing  hole" 
And  a  wishing  string  on  the  end  of  a  pole. 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  woodland  it  lies 
At  the  end  of  the  pathway  the  boys  have  made 

to  it, 
Still  as  the  woods  or  the  overhead  skies 

And  deep  as  the  hearts  of  the  youngsters  who 

knew  it. 

Ho,  it's  a  throne  for  a  towheaded  king 
With  a  scepter  of  elder  and  bobber  and  string! 

Place  where  we  wandered  in  Youth's  rosy  dawn 

Unmindful  of  life  and  its  sweet  necromancies — 
Spot  where  in  manhood  we've  stolen  and  gone 
And  fished  with  indifference  and  dwelt  with  our 

fancies, 
Ever  alert  that  our  line  should  be  taut 

To   catch   the   "old    sett'ler"   that   never  was 
caught. 


The  Old  Fishing  Hole 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    69 


You  sing  the  songs  of  the  meadows  who  will, 
The  songs  of  the  sumach,  the  daisies  and  clover, 

I'D  sing  the  song  of  the  "fishing  hole"  still 
With  old  recollections  all  hovering  over — 

Throne  in  the  woods  where  we  loitered  in  state 
And  learned  to  be  patient  and  hopeful — and  wait. 


TO     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Tale  the  Stage  Driver  Told. 

"VXTHY,  he  was  as  straight  as  a  limb,  sir, 

*  *     Slim  wus; 
His  name  ?   Well  we  called  him  "  Slim, "  sir, 

Well — cuz 

He  never  had  no  name  around  hare, 
As  frequently  happens  to  men  fair  an'  square — 
We  never  ast  questions  of  such,  do  y'  see  ? 
fbe  same  *s  apt  to  happen  t'  you  or  to  met 

Do  y'  savvy  ? 

'Twas  thus  ran  the  tale  of  the  driver,  as,  hugging 
the  road  by  the  canyon,  he  pointed  to  a  grave  on 
the  hillside,  the  goal  of  some  luckless  wand'rer — 

An*  the  gal  who  cum  with  him  was  fair,  sir, 

At  least 
As  any,  I  reckin,  back  thare,  sir, 

Back  East 

Where  you  hail,  I  take  it — with  a  face  like  a  rose; 
She  purty  nigh  worshipped  that  feller,  I  'spose! 
Her  eyes  used  to  thank  him  like  a  fawn's  allus  will 
That's  saved  by  a  hunter  from  dogs  or  the  kill — 

Understand  ? 

And  here  the  man  flicked  his  wheel-horse,  gently, 
as  if  quite  unconscious,  and  softly  deplored  the 
passing  of  gallantry  there  in  the  Westland. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    71 


They  lived  in  a  cabin,  up  yon,  sir, 

I  expect 
Fer  six  months  er  more,  cum  an'  gone,  sir, 

I  reck'lect 

The  stranger  I  brung  along  this  same  trail — 
A  Yankee,  I  tuk  it,  sort  o'  dudish  an'  pale; 
He  ast  whare  she  lived  an'  described  her  fair — 
I  p'inted  the  place  an'  I  left  him  right  thare — 

Right  yender! 

And  then  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  driver  seemed 
to  scan  the  grey  path  in  the  mountains  that  led 
to  the  two  lovers'  cabin,  clinging  there  on  the 
edge  of  the  canyon. 

But  "Slim"  saw  him  first — saw  the  stranger, 

I  ersume, 
An'  I  reckin,  too,  scented  sum  danger 

I  persume, 

For  he  goes  t'  the  cabin  an'  he  fills  up   his  gun 
An*  he  kisses  the  gal  like  he  allus  had  dun, 
Then  goes  to  the  rock  t'  the  left  o'  yon  riff, 
*N  blows  out  his  brains  an'  goes  over  the  cliff — 

A  tbousan'  feet ! 

Then  he  told  of  the  meeting  of  sister  and  brother 
— the  latter  the  stranger — who  marveled  much  at 
a  woman  who  would  live  thus  alone  in  those  moun 
tains. 

We  perjured  airselves,  like  sin,  sir, 

Fer  "Slim"; 
Fer  ever'  dogged  man  that  cum  in,  sir, 

Liked  him; 


72     SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


We  told  him — her  brother — she'd  lived  alone — see  ? 
That  nary  a  word  cud  be  sed  agin  she! 
He  took  her  back  East.     We  buried  our  pal 
Who'd  blowed  out  his  brains  t'  perteck  a  poor  gal, 

Out  yender; 

Game  man  ! 

The  driver  pulled  up  his  horses  and  lashed 
them  into  a  fury,  roundly  cursing  society  for  press 
ing  its  foolish  indictments. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    73 


"Discharged." 

r  I  ^HEY'VE  drawed  the  shades  behind  me  where 
•*•       the  free  land  rolls  away, 
They've  took  my  kit  an*  Betsy  an'  they've  fig- 

gered  up  my  pay. 
They've  gived  me  just  a  bloomin'  bit  o'  paper, 

stamped  an'  signed, 

An'  when  the  troop  goes  out  again — I've  got  t* 
stay  behind! 

No  more  o'  sleepin*  'neath  the  stars    along  with 

horse  an'  men — 
I'll   never   hear   our  trumpeter  blow  "reville" 

again! 
No  more  I'll  stretch  my  achin'  limbs  an'  drink 

the  mornin's  dew — 

O  Lordy,  how  they'll  miss  me  when  the  cavalry 
goes  through! 

I   'spose  sum  bloomin'  rooky  's  straddle  Betsy! 

Like  as  not 
He   don't   know   "boots  an'  saddles"  from  the 

"stable  call"  or  "trot"— 
An'  her  the  best-trained  trooper's  mare  in  this 

division,  sir! 

It  hain't  so  much  for  me  I  whines,  as  what  it 
is  for  her! 


74    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


I  hain't  been  decorated  fer  no  speshul  gallant  stunt, 
Except  a  saber  cut  behind  and  one  or  two  in 

front, 
But  it  don't  seem  but  yesterday  that  them  G.  O.'s 

was  read, 

"We    mention    Trooper  Jackson    for  his  gal 
lantry,"  they  said. 

It  seems  but  just  a  week  ago,  along  that  ornery  trail 
That  me  an'  Betsy  crawled  at  night  apast  old 

Spotted  Tail 
An'  brought  the  Seventh  up  at  dawn  in  time  t' 

save  'em  all — 

An*  now  a  rooky    's  ridin'  her  an'  I'm  shoved 
in  the  stall! 

It's  marvelous  how  grateful  Uncle  Sam  is  (in  his 

mind) — 
Now  when  the  troop  goes  out  again  he  lets  me 

stay  behind! 
But  there's  one  grain  o'  comfort,  an'  I'm  thankful 

for  it,  too — 

It's  knowin'  that  they'll  miss  me  when  the  cavalry 
goes  through! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    75 


A  Cowpuncher  and  Prayer. 

T  AIN'T  much  a  prayerful  man, 

I'spose  it's  'cause  I'm  all  alone; 
I've  heerd  some  prayers,  tho',  off  an'  on,- 

A  padre  down  t'  San  Antone 
Wunst  prayed  fer  me,  but  hell-a-mile, 

I  didn't  feel  no  different  when 
He'd  ended  up,  as  I  cud  see, 

Than  when  the  geezer  fust  begen! 

An'  wunst  I  heerd  a  feller  pray 

Who'd  stole  a  hawss  at  Eagle  Nest, 
But  shucks,  when  we-all  strung  him  up 

He  hollered  jist  like  all  the  rest; 
I've  heerd  a  feller  pray  t'  live — 

I've  heerd  another  pray  t'  die; 
But,  shoo,  the  fust  one  died  that  night, 

An'  'tother  lived — an'  that's  no  lief 

But  'tother  night  whilst  ridin'  in 

I  stopped  at  Dollar  Billy's  place — 
Bill's  got  a  parcel,  now,  o'  kids — 

He's  married  now  fer  quite  a  space; 
An'  thar  I  heerd  a  prayer  that  was, 

That  changed  my  prayer  idees  a  heap! 
Have  y'  heerd  a  dad-burned  little  tad 

Pray  "Now  I  lay  me  down  t'  sleep"? 


76  SWAZY    FOLKS    AND    OTHERS 


Jist  Loaf  in' . 

r  I  ^HEY  hain't  no  sense,  ez  I  kin  see, 
•*•      Of  workin'  on  etarnally 
'Ithout  no  stops  t'  think  er  dream, 
Er  study  Natcher's  pa  feet  scheme 
That's  lyin'  all  around  ye,  jest 
Her  happiest  an'  lov'liest! 
I  swan,  I  like  t'  jist  fergit, 
Occasional,  the  work  in  it, 
An'  leave  my  hawsses  standin'  there 
In  yender  furrow — -'bandon  care, 
An'  sort  o*  loaf  a  spell  an'  loll 
Agin  some  ol'  snake-fence  that's  all 
Nigh  busted  down,  an'  listen  to 
What  Natcher's  got  t'  say  t'  you 
In  way  o*  cheer,  an'  think  on  it — 
Jist  loaf  a  bit! 

I  like  t'  look  beyant  the  woods 
To  other  farms  an'  nayborhoods, 
An'  speckylate  on  what  there  is 
In  all  this  hullsome  world  o'  His; 
It  cums  t*  you  in  consequence 
Of  leanin'  on  a  old  snake-fence — 
They  hain't  no  view  o'  Life  so  rare 
Ez  what  y'  git  whilse  leanin'  there! 
Jist  try  it  wunct  an'  take  a  rest — 
You'll  find  that  it'll  pay  the  best, 
Fer  him  who  'complishes  the  most 
Is  him  who  stops  an'  ponders  so'  st 
He'll  value,  when  he  plows  agin, 
The  fertile  soil  he's  workin'  in — 
Jist  try  it  wunct,  an'  think  on  it — 
Jist  loaf  a  bit! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS     77 


In  Dreamland. 

/"\  WHERE  do  you  go,  little  Curlylocks — 
^*     Where  is  it  you  wander  and  what  to  see  ? 
O  where  do  you  ride  when  mother  rocks, 

And  what  are  the  wonders  denied  to  me  ? 
So  tightly  your  eyes  close,  dreamily, 

When  chirp  the  birds  from  the  cuckoo  clocks 
And  softly  and  sweetly  they  summon  thee — 

0  where  do  they  call  you,  Curlylocks  ? 

Across  a  bridging  of  silvery  strands, 

And  thence,  by  a  path,  to  a  laughing  stream; 
And  then,  like  a  wish,  into  Fairylands 

1  go  my  way  on  a  golden  beam; 

There's  nothing  for  me  but  to  play  and  dream, 
And  join  my  song  with  the  angel  bands, 

And  pluck  the  flowers  that  nod  and  seem 
To  grow  in  the  skies  for  a  baby's  hands. 

And  what  do  you  see  in  the  Dreamland  nooks, 
What  fairy  pictures  are  there  to  see  ? 
****** 

The  little  shepherds  with  dainty  crooks 
Who  leave  their  flocks  to  play  with  me; 

A  prince  in  velvet  who  bends  his  knee; 

A  gnome  that  lives  by  the  laughing  brooks; 

Away  in  our  Dreamland  fields  I  see 
The  little  friends  of  my  picture  books. 


78    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


A  Little  Girl  in  Gingham. 


,  outside,  the  winter's  mantle  kivers  up 
the  tired  earth, 
An'  within   the  glowin'  embers    conjure    fancies 

'round  the  hearth, 
O  it's  then  whilse  idly  musin'    that  it  seems,  ez  if 

on  wings, 

All  the  years  turn  back  to  yender  an'  the    other 
days  an'  things  — 

Thoughts  so  tender, 
Way  off  yender  — 

An'  y'  hain't  no  real  ideer  of  the  sentiment  it 
brings. 

Hands  I  'low  that  God  pervided  fer  an'  old  man's 

foolish  whim 
Seem  t'  take  his  mem'ry-pitchers  an'  to  polish  'em 

fer  him 
'Twell  he  jist  can't  help  but  see  'em    an'  believe 

they're  really  there  1 
An'  there's  one   that's  more   heart-pleasin'  than 

most  enny  ennywhere  — 
One  o'  many, 
Best  o'  enny  — 
Of  a  little  girl  in  gingham  with  sum  daisies  in  her 

hair. 


A  Little  Girl  in  Gingham 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    81 


Seems  t'  me,  by  jist  a-squintin',  I  kin  see  her  jist 

ez  plain 
Flittin'   'round  among    the  flowers  er  a-swingin' 

down  the  lane — 
Purty  cheeks  with  blush  o'  roses,  heart  ez  free  an' 

light  ez  air — 

An'  a  little  bit  o'  feller  tendin'  to  her  smallest  care — 
Bashful  lover, 
Freckled  lover 
Of  a  little  girl  in  gingham  with  sum  daisies  in  her 

hair. 

'Crost  the  shadders  wife  is  settin*  with  her  knittin' 

in  her  lap, 
An*  her  hair  in  snow-white  ringlets  creeps    frum 

underneath  her  cap — 

Age  is  tellin',  time  is  spellin',  yit  I  never,  I  declare, 
Seem  t'  git  the  knack  o'  seein'  that  it's  mother 

settin'  there — 

Seems  t'  me 
I  on'y  see 
Jist  a  little  girl  in  gingham  with  sum  daisies  in  her 

hair! 


8a    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Far  Apart. 

r¥"*WO  seekers  for  the  Polar  climes 
•*•      Both  left  from  the  Equator — 
One  north,  one  south,  they  went,  agreed 
To  meet  and  recount  later. 

The  first  one  found  the  North  Pole,  and 

The  second  found  the  other, 
And,  as  agreed,  they  met;  one  said: 

"What  found  you  there,  my  brother?" 

"Beside  the  North  Pole,"  he  replied, 

"A  wanderer  abided." 

"Your  name  ?"  I  asked.  "My  friend,  my  name 
Is  Theory,"  he  confided. 

"And  what  found  you?"  the  second  asked; 

"It's  passing  strange,  but  fact  is, 
I  found  a  like  chap  at  the  South, 

Who  said  his  name  is  Practice!" 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    83 


"At  Home." 

"AT  Homes"  are  most   pecoolyur,  not  t'  say 

•*•  ^     they're  even  quaint, 
Fer,  though  "at  home"  most  ever'one  attendin* 

of  'em  hain't, 

The  which  is  appertainin'  an',  as  I  set  out  t'  do, 
Gives  sumthin'  of  a  idee  of  the  one  we  anty-ed  to; 
The  cyards  wa'n't  delt  permiscus-like,  but  only  to 

the  pick — 
T'  jist  the  soshul  fav-er-ites  up  here  on  Skillin's 

Crick. 

The  cyards  they  plainly  specified  "on  Mondays, 

8  t'  10," 
The  which  wuz  first  misleadin'  to  the  hull  of  us, 

but  then 
We  sort  o'  kind  o'  figgered  out,  though  down  in 

black  an'  white, 
That   she'd    miss-delt    an'    didn't  want   us   every 

Monday  night! 
To  which  conclusion  we  agreed,  resolved  t'  see 

it  thue, 
An'  so  we  togged  in  joy  clothes  an'  Sunday  slickers, 

too. 


84    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


A  greaser  met  us  at  the  door  a-hissin' :  "Parlezvoo" ; 
We  answered,  pert  an'  proper-like;     "An'  thanky, 

same  t'  you"; 
An'  showed  our  cyards  (which  we  opined  we'd 

really  orter  take 
T*  show  the  man  a-tendin'  door  they  wuzn't  no 

mistake); 
He  sized  'em  up  an'  let  us  pass  with  nary  slip  er 

hitch, 
An'  showed  us  whare  t'  shed  our  coats  an'  check 

our  guns  an'  sich. 

The  real  elite  had  gethered  thare  sum  little  time 

before — 
I  won't  fergit  the  looks  o'  things  when  I  cum  in 

the  door! 
The  gals!  I  cayn't  describe  'em  an'  do  justice,  ner 

I  won't, 
With  twict  ez  much  of  clothes  behind  ez  what  they 

had  in  front! 
An'  ez  fer  men,  why  sum  of  'em   appeared  in 

"huntin'  case," 
But  most  of  'em  wuz  togged  in  what  the  boys  called 

"  open-face. " 

They  talked  of   Elbert  Hubbard  an'  of  Wilde  an' 

even  wuss, 

An'  lots  o'  poet  fellers  that  are  antedatin'  us; 
An'  then  a  vis'ter  poured  sum  tea — sum  mixed 

Oolong  an'  Jap — 
In  little  cups  like  thimbles  that  y'  balanced  in  yer 

lap. 

An'  jist  a-summarizin',  as  it's  given  me  t'  see, 
They  dealt  too  much  of  poets  an'  a  little  too  much 

tea! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    85 

But  this  is  incidental — why,  they  wuzn't  enny  fun 
Till  jist  about  the  quittin'  time  an'  then  the  fun 

begun, 
When  Dollar  Bill  an'  Ornery  Ike  an*  Big  Topeka 

Red 
Got  playin'  three-card  monte  on  the  aidge  o'  some 

one's  bed; 
They'd  delt  around  an'  Dollar  Bill  wuz  jist  t'  deal 

again 
An'  banked  t'  git  his  losin's,  when  the  tarnal  clock 

struck  ten! 

Well,  say,  'twas  most  amazin',  not  t'  say  etarnal 

queer! 
We  told  him  that  the  deal  was  closed,  but  Dollar 

wudn't  hear; 
The  way  he  shot  that  bedroom  up  wuz  sure  a 

shame  t'  own — 
The  pillers  looked  like  peekaboos  y'  see  at  San 

Antone! 

I  hain't  no  moralizer,  but  frum  this  y'  sure  kin  see 
What  cums  o'  talkin'  poetry  an'  drinkin'  too  much 

tea! 

We  know  when  we  have  got  enough,  an'  we're 

content  t'  stick 
An'  court  our  greasy  deck  o'  cyards  right  here  on 

Skillin's  Crick! 
They  hain't  no  way  t'  gentle  men  as  rough  an' 

gruff  ez  we 
An'  hold  'em  down  t'  poetry  an'  Jap  an'   Oolong 

tea! 
Hereafter  all  our  cyards  '11  read,  if  you'll  jist  take 

a  peek: 
"At   Home  on  Mondays,  8  t'  10 — an    all  the  rest 

the  week/" 


86    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Measure  of  a  Man. 

TT'S  no  place  to  measure  the  soul  of  a  man 

•*•     Out  here  in  the  markets  of  Malice  and  Greed, 

Where  men  live  the  slogan  "  Survive  if  you  can " 

And  hear  not  the  cries  of  the  weaker — or  heed; 
It's  no  place  to  measure  the  soul  of  a  man 

Where  Strife  lives  to  stifle  each  kindlier  deed. 

It's  no  time  to  measure  the  heart  of  a  man 

When  drums  beat  to  arms  and  he  answers  the  call, 

And  goes  forth  to  battle  to  slay  if  he  can, 

And  gloat  o'er  the  sorrows  of  others,  who  fall; 

It's  no  time  to  measure  the  heart  of  a  man 
With  duty  and  valor  o'er  shadowing  all. 

It's  no  time  to  measure  the  faith  of  a  man 

When  darkness  abounds  and  the  terrors  prevail — 

We  mortals  are  happy  to  believe  if  we  can, 
But  Doubt  is  a  giant  and  humans  are  frail; 

It's  no  time  to  measure  the  faith  of  a  man 
When  doubt  rages  high  and  the  strongest  will 
quail. 

Be  just  to  your  brother  and  measure  him  well, 
Not  out  in  the  markets  of  Greed  and  of  Woe, 

But  there  in  the  home,  in  the  twilighted  spell, 
With  children  and  wife,  'neath  the  lamp's  mellow 
glow, 

Where  all  of  his  virtues  and  qualities  tell — 
Where,  if  he's  a  man,  all  his  manhood  will  show. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    87 


"Mutterin'  Joe. 


'  Joe"  is  shot—  an'  dead! 
Cudn't  believe  'em  when  they  sed 
It  was  so!     Still  Joe's  been  gone 
Forty  years  now,  off  an'  on, 
T'  all  intents  an'  purposes, 
'Cept  sum  lucid  spells  o'  his. 

When  the  "Bucktails"  marched  away  — 
Sixty-one  —  ol'  res'dunts  say 
Wa'n't  a  man  on  Broken  Straw  — 
Ennywhere  —  they  ever  saw, 
Shot  ez  straight  an'  true  ez  Joe  — 
Sure  ez  Jedgment  Day,  y'  know! 

'Fore  he  left  the  townfokes  run 
Bullets  fer  him;  give  him  one 
Fer  each  loyal  State  that  staid 
In  the  Union,  an'  they  say-ed, 
Ez  they  reckoned  up  the  'mount; 
"Joe  make  every  bullet  count." 

Then  he  went  an',  lawsy,  son, 

You  know  what  them  "Bucktails"  dun!  — 

Fredericksburg  an'  Richmond-way, 

Back  t'  Spotts-yl-van-i-a  — 

Fer  the  war!     An'  how  they  fit!  — 

Gess  they  hold  the  ry-cord  yit  ! 


88    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Finally  Appamattox  cum — 
Brung  the  "Bucktail"  boys  back  hum, 
'Cludin'  Joe — er  Joe  that  was — 
Not  the  same  young  man  because 
He  was  changed;  his  comrades  sed 
War  had  sort  o'  "teched"  his  head. 

Greeted  'em  an'  speechyfied, 
Townfokes  did;  Joe  drew  aside — 
Didn't  seem  t'  know  er  keer — 
Wasn't  even  bcin'  here! 
Just  wud  mutter  'ternally: 
"Yes,  I  made  'em  count,"  sez  he. 

"Made  'em  count,"  Fer  forty  years 
That's  been  ringin'  in  his  ears; 
Sumtimes  when  there'd  be  a  day 
That  his  head  was  clear,  he'd  say: 
"One  fer  every  ball  I  had — 
An'  the  last  was  jist  a  lad!" 

Townfokes  allus  humored  Joe — 
Harmless  sort  o'  man,  y'  know; 
Never  begged  er  stole,  but  dun 
Odd  jobs  fer  most  ever'  one; 
"Friend  t'  all"  he  allus  sed — 
Only  war  had  "teched"  his  head. 

Wa'n't  upsettin'  when  I  saw 
Found  him  dead  on  Broken  Straw, 
Cold  an'  dead  agin  a  tree — 
Joe  had  planned  it  carefully; 
Seemed  he  never  cud  fergit  ! 
Gess  the  war  hain't  over  yitl 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    89 


A  Soldier's  Appreciation. 

(The  Philippine  Service.) 

T'VE  had  a  swell   dame  on   the   Bowery;    I've 

*•     fondled  a  gal  in  St.  Paul; 

I've  had  'em,  Caucasian  an'  yeller,  an*  told  the 

same  story  to  all; 
I've  broke  with  a  gal  back  in  Denver;  I   left  a 

case  pendin'  in  Nome; 
I  had  one — but  that  doesn't  matter — she's  married 

an'  settled  at  home; 
I've  had  'em  of  various  morals,  in  various  parts 

of  the  earth, 
But  I  had  t'  cum  out  t'  the  Islands  t*  find  what  a 

woman  is  worth! 

A-lyin'  here  like  a  heathen, 
A  fever-chart  over  my  bed 

T'  git  me  my  pay  while  I'm  breathin' 
An'  check  me  up  when  I'm  dead; — 

(Say,  nurse  can't  y'  give  me  sum  water  ? 
Aw,  please,  jist  a  little  bit  more!) 

— Y'll  learn  lots  o'  wimin — or  oughter  — 
Y'  never  have  reckined  before! 

She  sits  by  my  cot  in  the  evenin',  fer  then's  when 

the  fever  is  high, 
An'  sort  o*  smooths  out  the  riffles  in  the  path  we 

all  travel  who  die; 
She  tells  me  the  tales  o'  th'  Homeland,  an'  settles 

old  scores  with  my  soul, 
An'  squares  me  up  with  my  conscience,  against 

the  Sergeant's  Last  Roll; 


90    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


An'  t'  think  of  all  of  the  females  I've  coppered 

all  over  the  earth 

That  I  had  t'  cum  out  t'  the  Islands  t'  find  what  a 
woman  is  worth! 
(What  does  he  say-the  perfesser  ? 

Now  don't  be  afeered,  mam,  t'  tell!) 
She  lies  like  a  lady,  God  bless  her! 

She  knows  that  I'll  never  git  well! 
An'  the  rest  of  'em  always  was  lyin' — 

They  strung  me  all  over  the  earth — 
An'  here  at  last  when  I'm  dyin* 

I  find  what  a  woman  is  worth! 


T 


Defying  Age. 

CHAT'S  the  story  I  am  tol': 
"Gittin'  ol' I  Gittin'  ol'!" 
Well,  mebbe  so,  but  seems  t'  me 
I'm  spry  as  what  I  uster  be! 

Git  yer  fiddle — draw  yer  bow — 

Rosum  up  an'  let  'er  go — 
Louder!  Faster!  Let 'er  sing! 
Watch  this  ol'  time  pigeon  wing! 

What's  the  matter — air  y'  dun  ? 

Cracky,  I  have  jist  begun! 

IPhare's  that  weazened  up  ol'  soul 
Telt  me  I  wuz  gittin'  ol'  ? 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    91 


Little  Lost  Child. 


on  the  curb  of  the  city  street, 

quivering  voice  and  helpless  feet, 
No  one  to  soothe  you,  caress  or  bind, 
Or  kiss  your  curls,  but  the  vagrant  wind! 
No  one  to  strengthen  your  faltering  hand 
And  lead  you  back  into  Happier  Land; 
Poor  little  mite  with  your  heart  so  wrung  — 
Your  sadnesi;  and  sorrows  begun  so  young!  — 
Little  lost  child! 

"Mike,  the  crossing  cop,"  sheds  a  tear 
And  hurrying  people  pause  to  hear  — 
Pause  to  pity  you,  lost  —  alone  — 
Then  hurry  on  to  their  home  and  own; 
Even  a  teamster  slacks  his  pace 
And  wipes  a  tear  from  his  honest  face; 
Coddled  by  women  so  kind  and  good 
Who  lavish  the  pity  of  motherhood  — 
Little  lost  child! 

Poor  little  thing,  with  your  curls  wind-tos't, 
You  make  me  pine  for  a  child  I  lost  — 
Make  me  long  for  a  baby  face 
That  shines  Up  There  in  the  angel's  place 
Cease  your  tears  and  your  fears  so  wild, 
For  all  the  world  loves  a  little  child  — 
Touched  are  the  hearts  of  all  who  see 
And  all  the  world  is  a  parent  to  thee, 
Little  lost  child! 


92    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Understanding. 

T  met  a  man  today  who  understood 

•"•     And  loved  the  little  things  I  love  so  well, 

Who,  charmed  by  songs  of  birds  in  field  and  wood, 

Could  tune  his  ear  to  what  they  had  to  tell; 

Who  chose  the  paths  that  led  through  vale  and 

dell- 
Let  others  stroll  the  crowded  streets  who  would — 

And  walked  where  lilies  struck  their  tiny  bell 
In  greeting,  and — I  knew  he  understood. 

We  walked  along  a  quiet  country  road, 

And  Banked  by  scenes  we  both  left  long  ago — 
Past  many  a  little,  humble,  quaint  abode 

Where  dwelt  the  simple  folks  we  used  to  know; 

He  greeted  honest  faces,  all  aglow, 
With  loving  words  and  kindnesses  that  showed 

He'd  not  shut  out  those  friends  he  used  to  know 
Who  staid  behind — along  the  Quiet  Road. 

He  knew  the  paths  that  led  by  stream  and  wood, 

And  loved  the  little  things  I  love  so  well, 
And  cherished  all,  so  homely  yet  so  good, 

And  knew  the  homely  tales  they  had  to  tell; 

He  felt  the  silent  forest's  mystic  spell — 
The  quiet  charm — quite  as  no  other  could, 

And  loved  it  much,  and  then  I  knew  full  well 
At  last  I'd  met  a  man  who  understood. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    93 


Where's  He  At? 

"VirHERE'S  the  feller  we  used  t'  know ? 

First  name  was  Sam,  er  mebbe  'twas 

Joe, 

Mebbe  'twas  Bill — an'  the  'tother  was  Joy — 
Never  got  cure't  of  bein'  a  boy! 
Yew  reckolect  him  like  he  was  then  ? 
Allus  was  smilin'  an'  bald  ez  a  wen — 
Had  a  big  fambly — five,  more  er  less't, 
Last  one,  allus,  he  cottoned  th'  best — 
—Where's  he  at  ? 

Allus  used  t'  cum  hum  at  night 
Hist  off  his  coat  an'  light  up  the  light, 
Flop  over  int'  his  big  webbin'  chair, 
Never  would  stop  fer  combin'  his  hair, 
Ease  off  his  gallus — an'  remember,  by  jocks, 
Kicked  off  his  shoes  an'  tromped  in  his  sox, 
Romped  with  them  kids  till  he  mos'  cudn't 

see — 

They  liked  it  purty  nigh  much  ez  he  f — 
— Where's  he  gone  ? 

Then  when  he  sot  t'  the  evenin*  repast 
Nothin'  was  finer  than  hearin'  him  ast 
Blessin'  fer  all,  with  a  smile  that  was  meant: 
"Lord,  we  are  thankful  fer  what  y'  have 

sent — 

All  of  our  enemies  we  freely  fergive — 
We're  thankful  t'  yew  fer  lettin*  us  live — " 
Where's  he  at?    Well,  wherever  he  be, 
Here's  th'  respecks  of  one  humble  ez  me — 
— Good  luck  t'  him  I 


94    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Man  Who  Lost. 

Tt's  easy  enough  when  a  man  has  gained 
•*•  The  great  success  that  the  gods  endow, 
To  take  his  hand  and,  as  fate  ordained 

To  place  the  laurel  upon  his  brow; 
But  what  of  the  man  who  has  paid  the  cost  ? — 
The  wand'ring  one  of  the  Host  That  Lost  ? 

For  each  who  wins  there  is  one  who  fails — 
For  every  smile  there's  a  teardrop  shed; 

The  scroll  of  fame,  in  the  final  scales, 
Will  underweight  all  the  woes  it  bred; 

There  is  no  path  to  the  goal  but's  crossed 

By  scores  of  those  of  the  Host  That  Lost. 

His  hands  are  palsied,  his  wounds  are  sore! 

When,  deep  in  his  heart,  sweet  memories  stir, 
What  blame  to  him  if  he  lingers  o'er 

The  cup  that  hides  all  the  days  that  were — 
The  brimming  cup  that  will  shut  from  view 
The  happier  days  that  the  Failure  knew  f 

Though  bleared  his  eye,  in  its  light  there  is 
A  longing,  deep,  for  a  child's  caress — 

An  humble  wish  for  a  child  of  his 
To  lavish  his  treasured  tenderness — 

A  mute  appeal  for  a  word — a  sigh — 

From  one  of  them  all  who  pass  him  by! 


The  Man   Who  Lost 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    97 


The  laurel  wreath  is  a  fair  reward 

For  him  who  won  and  who  fought  so  well, 

Then  why  not  save,  from  your  liberal  hoard, 
A  word  of  cheer  for  the  man  who  fell  ? — 

A  thought  for  the  man  who  has  paid  the  cost — 

A  hand  for  those  of  the  Host  That  Lost  ? 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


When  Pals  Must  Part. 

"Vyi7"HEN  two  strong   men,  who've  passed  the 

bowl  and  laughed  at  quip  and  jest — 
Who've  smoked  their  pipes,  believed  in  life  and 

looked  upon  its  best — 
Who've  e'er  been  true  when  Failure  claimed  the 

toll  it  takes  from  men — 
Who've  given  each  the  other's  hand  and  helped 

him  up  again — 
The  world  must  turn  aside  nor  heed  the  honest 

tears  that  start, 
When  two  such  men  shall  reach  the  forks  where 

best  of  pals  must  part! 

"Old  pal" — there  lurks  within  the  words  a  mean 
ing  more  than  friend — 

A  pledge,  a  trust,  a  fellowship  that  only  men  can 
blend; 

They've  shared  their  woes,  their  cheer  and  smiles, 
alike  the  worst  and  best, 

And  pledged  the  world  for  what  it's  worth  and 
overlooked  the  rest; 

They've  drunk  in  silence  'round  the  board,  and 
seen,  with  heavy  heart, 

The  time  when  they  shall  reach  the  forks  where 
best  of  pals  must  part. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    99 


They've  passed  the  bowl  and  ever  made  of  Fate 

a  happy  jest, 
But,  comes  a  time  when  cheer  departs  and  Death 

becomes  the  guest — 
Then  two  strong  men  shall  clasp  their  hands  and, 

ere  the  final  ban, 
Can  look  into  each  other's  eyes  and  each  can  see 

— a  Man! 
It  is  no  woman's  heart  that  quails,  nor  childish 

tears  that  start, 
When  two  such   men  stand  at  the  forks  where 

best  of  pals  must  part! 


The  Happy  Man. 

T  do  not  toil  that  I  may  hoard 

•*•     The  tithe  my  labor  brings  to  me — 

The  sweetest  draught  comes  from  a  gourd, 

And  happiness  from  poverty; 
I  toil  because  I've  hands  to  do, 

And  love  of  men  within  my  heart, 
And,  when  my  sands  have  all  run  through, 

I  want  it  said  I  did  my  part. 

The  scanty  tithe  that  men  can  give 

Is  but  a  puny  prize  at  best — 
It  is  enough  that  I  should  live 

In  happiness  and  peace  and  rest; 
I  give  my  toil  in  humble  pride, 

To  merit,  when  its  end  shall  come, 
The  love  that  waits  at  eventide 

Within  the  open  door  of  Home. 


ioo   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Shadders. 

"DUD  Sennett,  where  be  you  t'day 
•*•      That  you  can't  hear  a  feller,  say, 
'Ithout  him  shoutin'  'nuff  t'  wake 
The  tarnal  universe  ?     Less  take — 
I  stump  y',  Pud — take  off  these  things, 
Air  watch  an'  chains  an'  these  'ere  rings, 
They're  nuthin'  needful,  if  y'  please — 
They're  jist  a  Growed-up's  vanities! 
Less  peel  air  store-made  coat  an'  vest, 
Air  patent  shoes  an'  all  the  rest, 
'N  wear  a  cap  an*  roundabout 
'N  a  woolun  scarf  fer  keepin'  out 
The  chisley  air,  an'  I  suppose 
We'd  orter  have  sum  "copper  toes"; 
Less  put  hoss-ches'nuts  'round  air  neck 
T'  stave  the  measles  off,  I  'speck, 
'N  wipe  air  nose,  fer    all  we  keer, 
Acrost  air  sleeve,  there's  no  one  here 
That  knows  er  cares  fer  us,  I  vum, 
We're  boys  agin — us  two — back  hum! 
'N  now  cum  on,  fer  I'm  doggoned, 
There's  skatin*  down  on  Green's  old  pondl 

Of  course  we  can't!    I  wish  we  cud! 
My  words  is  fig-ger-a-tive,  Pud, 
A  sort  of  dream,  an'  every  day 
The  past  gits  more  an'  more  that  way! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    101 


Occasional  I  seem  t'  see 

The  boys  we  knowed,  an'  you  an'  me, 

A-startin'  top  o'  Millses  Hill 

T'  slide  clean  down  t'  Scouller's  Mill, 

Then  double  back  t'  Green's  old  pond 

Where,  over  night,  sum  magic  wand 

Had  waved,  it  seemed,  with  gen'rous  poise 

With  jist  a  mind  t'  please  us  boys! 

The  girls  an'  boys  of  boys  we  knew 

Air  skatin'  like  we  used  to  do; 

I  wonder  if  they  ever  feel 

The  shadders  'round  them  gently  steal, 

Er  take  'em  by  the  hand  an*  spin 

Acrost  the  pond  an'  back  agin  ? 

I  wonder  do  they  know  er  care 

That  'mongst  them  shadders  flittin'  there 

Are  shadders,  Pud,  of  you  an'  me — 

Er  of  us  as  we  used  to  be  ? 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Old  Rosemont. 

(Rosemont,  Near  Winchester,  Virginia.) 

r  I  ^HERE'S  something  in  the  magic  of  the  gentle 
•*•  evening  haze 

That  seems  to  conjure  visions  of  your  past  for 
gotten  days — 

A  time  'twixt  day  and  darkness  when  the  shades 
dispel  the  glow, 

A  subtle  something  whispers  of  the  days  so  long 
ago. 

I  hear  the  hunter's  tocsin  sound,  and,  ere  its  call 

has  died, 
Comes  Chivalry  upon  a  steed  with   Beauty  by  his 

side; 
A  smile  to  greet,  a  hunting  song  and  then  away — 

away — 
Across  the  blue  grass  meadows  where  the  quarry's 

courses  lay. 

I  see  the  packs  return  again,  the  huntsmen,  at  their 

ease, 
Tell  tales  of  those  old  hunting  days  beneath  your 

spreading  trees; 
I  see  your  open  portals  shed  a  golden  path,  and 

then 
Your  friends  of  olden,  olden  times  pass  through 

your  doors  again. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    103 


Your   festal   boards   are   spread   once   more   and 

Beauty  banters  Wit, 

And  favored  is  the  ruby  wine  by  ruby  lips  to  it; 
The  sighing  evening  zephyrs  that  across  the  blue 

grass  steal, 
Bring  music  of  the  dance  again — the  old  Virginia 

reel. 

The  picture  sadly  vanishes  beyond  the  evening 

haze — 
Your  silence  but  a  mockery  of  those  forgotten 

days! 
Your  portals  wide  have   closed   upon  your  last 

departing  guest, 
And  Death  has  met  him  at  your  gate  and  led  him 

toward  the  West. 

Your  thatch  is  hoary  now,  as  mine,  your  comfort, 

as  my  own, 
Is  looking  back  and  living  in  the  joys  you  have 

known, 
And  cherishing  old  memories — a  smile — a  face — 

a  name — 
The  winters  of  our  lives,  old  manse,  are  very  much 

the  same! 


104   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Winter  Mornin's. 

HPHERE'S  mornin's  when  my  roomatiz  is  worse 
•*•      than  ordinary, 
An'  wakes  me  up  'bout  four  o'clock,  er  mebbe 

nigher  three. 
An*  here  I  lay  an'  think  an'  dream,  all  soul  alone, 

with  nary 
A    thing     except     my     roomatiz    t'    keep    me 

company; 
It  somehow  seems  t'  soothe  the  pain,  jest  lookin' 

out  the  wender, 
The    lights    from    Mem'ry's    candles   come  a- 

gleamin'  'cross  the  snow 

An  'luminate  a  pitcher  that  I  see  again,  off  yender, 
Them   good    old   winter   mornin's  in  the  Long 
Time  Ago. 

Them   frosty   winter   mornin's,   how  I    reckolect 

an'  love  'em, 
As    peaceful    as    the    mornin's    was  before  a 

woe  was  born; 

As  crispy  as  the  ling'rin'stars  a-twinklin'  above  'em, 
An*  every  sound  was  carried  like  'twas  blasted 

from  a  horn! 
I  see  'em  in  the  kitchen  there,  my  mother,  father, 

brother, 
The    hired    hand    a-dozin'  in    a   straight-back 

kitchen  chair, 
An'  'Lizebuth,   the  orphant  girl,  our  fambly  used 

t'  mother, 

A-turnin'   golden   buckwheats   on   the  smokin' 
griddle  there. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    105 


Acrost  the  mantled  medder  lot  the  nayburs'  lights 

come  shinin', 
A  twinkle  here,  anotner  there,  a-gleamin'  'cross 

the  way, 
They  seem  t'  call  in  gentle  voice,  that's  way  beyant 

definin', 
"Good   mornin',   naybur,   God   has   spared  us 

fer  another  day." 
An'    lyin'    here,    jest    musin'-like,    an'    watchin* 

Mem'ry's  prism, 
An'    seein'    lights    of   other    days  cum  shinin' 

'cross  the  snow, 
I    swanny,    seems   t'   have   the   knack   o'   killin* 

roomatism, 

Jest   thinkin'   on   them   winter  mornin's  Long 
Time  Ago! 


io6   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Fall. 

"DRUSHWOOD  burnin'- 
•^     Leaves  a-turnin' 
Yaller,  gold  and  red; 

Wind's  a-singin' — 

Birds  a-wingin* 
South'ards,  overhead. 

Geese  a-honkin' — 

Cattle  chawnkin' 
'Round  th'  pastur  gate; 

Trees  stopt  gummin' — 

Fall  's  a-cummin' 
Jist  's  sure  's  fate. 

Corncrib  's  heapin  — 

Grainbin  's  keepin' 
Fuller  than  two  ticks; 

Turkeys  bluffin' — 

Right  fer  stuffin' 
'Bout  th'  Twenty-six. 

Crops  all  tended — 

Work  all  ended — 
We're  right  snug  at  hum; 

Fall  's  a-cummin' 

Jist  a-hummin' — 
Durn  it,  let  'er  cum. 


Fall 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    109 


The  Last  Edition. 

WHEN  the  last  of  Life's  Copy  is  finished 
And  edited,  baring  the  sin; 
When  the  stress  of  the  toil  is  diminished, 

And  final  forms  wait  to  go  in; 
When  the  types  are  locked  fast  in  their  places — 

Our  lives  written  there,  and  their  sum — 
And  we're  gathered  'round  here  in  our  places 

All  waiting  for  "30"  to  come; 
When  the  Master  Hand  touches  the  lever 

To  run  the  edition  That  Day — 
Then,  my  brothers  of  Ever  and  Ever, 

Then  what  will  our  printed  page  say  ? 

Will  the  Chief  edit  each  little  error  ? 

Each  minor  mistake  will  He  see  f 
Will  He  visit  the  punishing  terror 

On  mortals  as  helpless  as  we  ? 
Will  He  see  the  turned-rule  in  the  column 

Each  marking  a  task  left  undone  ? 
Will  He  note  with  a  mien,  grave  and  solemn, 

Good  works  that  were  never  begun  ? 
When  the  Master  Hand  touches  the  lever 

To  run  the  edition  That  Day, 
Then  my  brother  of  Ever  and  Ever 

Look  well  to  what  your  pages  say  I 


no   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Dan  M'Carty  of  the  Crossing 
Squad. 

A    man  of  emotions  and  various  notions  is  Officer 
•**•     Danny  McCarty, 
He's   always   bossing  the  jam  at  the  crossing — 

with  some  an  unpopular  party; 
He's   a   heart   that   is   swelling   beyond   a   man's 

telling,  but  in  spite  of  all  of  his  bossing, 
He's  a  saint,  he's  a  lamb,  when  he  holds  up  the  jam 

for  a  Little  Babe  at  the  Crossing. 

"Hold  up  yer  car! 

Sthop^where  y'  are — 
You  wid  the  dumpin'  cyart,  see  111 

Er  I'll  bump  y'  with  this! 

Come  on,  little  miss, 
Over  the  crossin'  wid  me." 

He's  hale  and  he's  hearty,  is  Danny  McCarty 

a  tower  'midst  greatest  confusion, 
He's  like  to  be  laughing  and  joking  and  chaffing, 

and  often  he  swears  in  profusion! 
'Till  there  comes  a  child  with  eyes  blue  and  mild, 

with  ringlets  of  gold  all  a-tossing, 
And  traffic  must  pause  for  a  minute,  because, 

there's  a  Little  Child  at  the  Crossing. 

"Sthop!    That's  enough! 

Nun  o'  yer  guff, 
Er  I'll  run  yez  in,  d'  y'  see  ?!! 

You — go — to —    Well, 

Come  on,  little  gel, 
Over  the  crossin'  wid  me." 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    in 


His  hand   clasp   is  tender,  his  life  is  a  fender, 

keeping  all  harm  from  the  baby — 
(Why,   Danny,   you're   blinking;  something,   I'm 

thinking,  has  blown  in  your  eye,  sir,  maybe!) 
She    crosses    the    street    and    kisses     him    sweet 

and  leaves  him  there,  standing  alone — 
(Those  are  tears  in  your  eyes !     Ah,  Dan,  I  surmise, 

you've  babies  at  home  of  your  own !) 

Then  here's  to  you,  Dan, 

You've  no  medals,  man, 
Nor  do  they  bedeck  you  in  flowers — 

But,  if  danger  e'er  lures, 

May  the  Lord  care  for  yours 
As  safely  as  you've  cared  for  ours! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 

Gone. 

r  I  ""HE  house  is  strangely  silent  now, 
•*•      And  not  the  same  to  me — 
It  lacks  the  joy  and  sunshine  that 

Its  chief  charm  used  to  be; 
It's  like  unto  a  golden  crown 

That's  lost  its  richest  jewel — 
The  brightest  part  of  home  is  gone 

Since  baby  went  to  school. 

Her  playthings  ?  Yes,  we  keep  them  here 

In  orderly  array, 
But  they  but  seem  to  emphasize 

The  truth  that  she's  away! 
They  used  to  be  all  strewn  about 

Without  regard  to  rule, 
But  O,  they  are  so  orderly 

Since  baby  went  to  school! 

Beneath  the  tree  the  garden  swing 

Sways  sadly  in  the  wind, 
And  all  the  place  fair  seems  to  weep 

With  us  she  left  behind; 
There  is  no  glint  of  golden  locks, 

Like  flashes  from  a  jewel, 
But  all  about  it's  lonely  now. 

Since  baby  went  to  school. 

She  didn't  know  how  hard  it  was 

To  break  those  ties  that  bind 
The  day  we  started  her  to  school 

And  bade  the  world  be  kind! 
She  couldn't  feel  the  sorrow  pangs 

As  she  passed  out  our  door! 
It  seemed  the  babe — we  loved  her  so! — 

Was  gone  for  evermore! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    113 


Romancin'. 

rl"*HERE'S  sumtimes  when  the  gloamin'  sort  o' 
•^     gets  the  best  o'  me — 
A  time  when  silent  shadders  makes  the  choicest 

kumpany — 
When  ol'  time  fokes  an'  faces  seem  t'  steal  from 

out  the  gloom 
An*  wait  here  at  my  elbow  whilse  1  shift  Life's 

creakin'  loom; 
It's   then   I  git  t'  musin'  an'  I    rosum   up    my 

bow 
An'  take  down  my  ol'  fiddle  an'  caress   her  soft 

an'  low — 
She   seems   to   git   the   speerit,   an'  I   coax  her 

'twell  she  jest 
Swells   out  her   th'oat   an'  sings  'em  —  sings  the 

songs  I  love  the  best. 

I  foller  her  in  rapshure  whilse  she   leads  me  on 

an'  thue, 
Beside  the  "Swanee    River"  an'  "In    Ole   Vir- 

ginny,"  too; 
I    peer  thue    storms   o'   teardrops   ez    her   voice 

drops  soft  an'  low 
An'  fairly  seems  t'  whisper   to  me  "Ol'     Black 

Joe"; 
There's  one  more  sympathetiker  than  what  the 

others  air, 
An'  when    she  starts  t'  sing  it  I  kin  see  them 

shadders  there 
Draw    closter    'round    the    fiddle    fer    to'    hear 

it— "Nellie  Gray"— 
They   hain't   no   other   music   ever    teched    me 

that-a-wayl 


Ii4   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


I    love  'er  —  how   I    love  'er!  —  every   soul    en- 

durin'  note — 
I  love  her  from  her  tailpiece  to  the  latch  around 

her  th'oat! 
They  hain't  no  other   music  short  o*  what    the 

angels  sings 
That's   nowhere    nigh  ez  purty  ez  th*  music   of 

her  strings — 
I    swanny,  'tisn't   music — really  music — that  she 

plays, 
It's  actool  conversation  with  the  past  and  other 

days! 
If  I   cud  have   my  ruthers  when   I   die  I   'low 

I'd  jest 
Perfer  t'  hear  my  fiddle  play  the  songs  I  love 

the  best! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    115 


The  Place  and  Time  for  Prayer. 


met   down  there  at   Lonesome  on  the 

Spittin'  Adder  Crick  — 
They  was  Ike  an'  Humpy  Larkin  an'  —  in  fack 

the  ch'ice  an'  pick 

Of  all  the  men  an'  wimin  in  the  Basin  that  p'tend 
They're  ennywise  religus.     I  cut  in  about  the  end 

As  our  old  Parson  Highbee  give  the  floor  t'  Izzy 

Say  re 
Ter  talk  about  the  ethics  an'  the  time  an'  place 

fer  prayer; 
Iz   'lowed  he     was  pertickler   'bout  the  way  he 

chose  t'  pray  — 
Perfurred    ter  kneel  beside  a  bed  most  enny  time 

o'  day. 

The  Parson  an'  Bill  Thompkins  an'  Catamount 

Tom  Lesch 
Allowed  they'd   dun    their   prayin'est  prayer  out 

in  the  bresh 
With   no   one  there    to    listen,    an'    ol'    Stinkin* 

River  Rice 
Maintained,   fer   bang-up    prayin',  why   the  cow 

range  was  his  ch'ice. 

An'  then  I   reckoleckted   of  a  time  out  in  the  hill 
Whilse  chasin'  of  a  rustler  known  as  Silver  Dollar 

Bill; 
I'm  purty  tarnal    handy    with  a  gun,     but    I'll 

be  cuss't 
The  rustler  saw  me    cumin',  an'   he    drawed   his 

cannon  fust! 


ii6    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


I  riz  rite  up  in  meetin*  an',  sez  I,    rite    then  an' 

there, 
"Now  I  hain't  hell  fer  prayin'  enny  time  er  enny 

where, 
But  I  have  prayed  sum  off  an'  on  an'  the  best  I 

ever  dun 
Was  wunct   I   'us   lookin'   crosseyed   into   Silver 

Dollar's  gun." 


Outweighing  All. 


every  man,  on  reaching  fame 
And  fortune,  be  it  good  or  bad, 
Doth  meditate  at  times  upon 

The  helps  and  hardships  he  has  had; 
The  fellowship  of  men  is  much 

As  shaping  ends,  but,  back  of  it 
His  life  and  all  depends  upon 
A  mother's  love  —  or  lack  of  it. 

The  Paths  to  Th  re  are  rough  at  best, 

And  tortuous,  we're  apt  to  find, 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  what  men  say, 

The  world  and  all  is  good  and  kind; 
There's  less  of  sorrow  and  of  tears 

Than  pleasure  in  this  life-long  quest, 
And  cheering  words  are  plentiful, 

But  mother  love  outweighs  the  rest. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    117 


Old-Fashioned  Flowers. 

I"  fer  one,  hain't  over-het 
•••     'Bout  new-fangled  things,  jist  set 
That  down  in  yer  book!    I  jinks, 
Ever'  half-baked  man  that  thinks 
Things  is  better,  as  a  rule, 
Than  they  used  t'  be  's  a  fool — 
(Course,  friend,  I'm  exceptin'  you) — 
Tell  him  that  I  sed  so,  too. 

More  improvement,  seems  t'  me, 
In  things  as  they  used  t'  be; 
Flowers  in  par-tick-i-ler 
Growed  a  heap  site  puttier 
Then  as  now,  is  my  surmise; 
Land  o'  livin',  close  my  eyes — 
See  them  flowers  maw  set  out — 
Je-e-emuny,  I  wanna  shout! 

Climbin'  roses! — lawsey  day — 
Runnin'  this  and  thataway, 
Reechin'  out  an'  smilin',  too, 
Twistin'  'round  the  heart  of  you, 
Breathin'  tender  words  o'  love 
Underfoot  and  up  above — 
Sweetest  things  I  ever  saw— 
Allus  'minded  me  of  maw! 


US    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Slips  from  maw's  ger-a-nium 
Growed  us  out  o'  house  an'  hum; 
Wa'n't  a  bare  spot,  I  declare, 
But  maw  planted  flowers  thare! 
Hollyhawks  an'  pinys,  too, 
Smilin'  through  the  years  at  you — 
Wunder,  do  y',  that  one  sings 
'Bout  the  good  old-fashioned  things  ? 

Whare's  yer  new-style  orchids  at  ? — 
Cyclmuns  an'  sich  as  that, 
'Side  o'  these  ?     Why  I  kin  see 
More  real  beauty,  seems  t'  me, 
In  a  rose  er  clover-tops 
Than  in  them  'ats  growed  in  shops. 
You  take  them — I'll  take  the  rest! 
Old-time  posies  I  love  best! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    119 


The  Folly  of  Superstition. 

A  S  it's  give  me  to  percieve 
•^•^     Fokes  that  hold,  er  tend  t'  b'lieve, 
That  hawss-chessnuts  he'p,  er  is, 
Cuore  fer,  the  rheumatiz, 
Er  that  things  more  foolisher 
'N  chessnuts,  wuz  invented  fer 
Cuorin'  an'  p'ventin'  death, 
Better  hold  their  doggone  breath; 
Them  fokes  allus  seemed  t'  me 
'Bout  the  foolishest  they  be! 

Take  fer  instance  Mylo  Bee, 
Dumbdest  fool  I   evur  see; 
Wa'n't  a  pocket  in  his  vest, 
Coat  er  pants  that  wuzn't  jest 
Crammed  with  vegetables  an'  sich 
Keepin'  ever'thin'  frum  itch 
Clean  't  black  dipthery  frum 
Mylo,  an'  I  gess  they's  sum 
Doctors  nevur  heerd  of,  sir, 
Mylo  had  pervided  fer! 

Wore  sum  fetty  'round  his  neck 
Fer  the  janders,  I  expeck; 
Toted  taters  all  about 
Fer  t'  keep  numony  out; 
Buckeyes  fer  the  rheumatiz 
Wuz  a  fool  idee  o'  his!  , 

*         *         * 

Nevur  dun  a  bit  o'  good — 
Knowed  they  wa'n't  no  liklihood — 
Mylo  got — perhaps  you've  seen — 
B  lowed  up  by  a  thrash  in'  'chine/ 


iao   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Ben  Tarr  Opines. 

r  I  ''HERE'S  nuthin'  I  know,  er  that  ever  I  see, 
•*•      That's  half  's  contrary  ez  human  fokes  be! 
They're  sartin  an*  sure  t'  put  plans  out  o*  j'int — 
An'  right  here  in  Swazy  's  a  sample  in  p'int. 

Why,  ever  since  I  cum  t'  Swazy,  I  gess, 

Sam  Davis  's  been  purrin'  t'  Myry  Ann  Kress — 

Jist  lookin'  at  others  neither  one  cud  abide, 
An'  ever'one  said  it  was  all  cut  an'  dried. 

An*  Myry  wus  pert-like  an'  purty  an'  bright, 
Whilse  all  'at    Sam   knowed    wudn't   last  over 
night; 

Yit  Sam  went  t'  Congerss,  contrary  t'  plan, 
An   Myry  run  off  with  a  ligbtenin*  rod  man.1 


Ol'  Ben  Tarr 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    123 


The  Old  Back  Stoop. 


,   yes,   the   house   is   finished    an'    it's 
bigger  'n  creation  ! 
There's  nuthin'  in  the  township  that  is  half  ez 

big  er  fine; 
The  wimin  folks  kep'  naggin'  fer  t'  build  it,  till, 

darnation, 
I    jist    plumb    had   t'  build  it  t'  presarve  my 

peace  o'  min'. 
We  moved  the  old  place  backurds,  tew  the  orchard 

over  yender; 
It's    purty,    hain't    it,    stranger  ?     How  them 

mornin'  glories  droop, 
An'  see  that  mountain  ivy  how  it  clings  s'  soft  an' 

tender 

Around    the    ellum    timbers    of   the  old  back 
stoop. 

Air  new  house  is  more  competint  an*  cost  a  heap, 

by  towhitt  — 
A    sta-shun-ary    wash    troff   an'   them    fixin's 

ever'where  — 
But  sumhow,  jist  betwixt  us  (but  I  ivudn't    have 

them  know  it/) 
I  feel  jist  twict  as  happy  in  the  old  house  over 

there! 
We  built  it  when  we  married  an'  we  cleared  the 

oak  an'  beegum  — 
Around   it   all   air   babies  uster  romp  an'  play 

an'  troop; 
They're  mostly  sleepin*  yender   an'  the  only  time 

I  see  'em 

Is  whilse   I    set   an'  romance  on  the  old  back 
stoop! 


124   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


It  seems — I  'low  I'm  foolish — but  it  seems  t'  me 

the  flowers 
Grow    sweeter   'round   the  old   place  than  the 

new  place  over  there; 
It  seems  the  vines   cling  closer,  and  I  believe  the 

evenin'  showers 
Fall   softer   on    that    mossy  roof   than    mostly 

ennywhere! 
It  seems  the  birds   sing  sweeter  an'  that  Natchur 

is  more  tender 
An',   O  them   old   man's  fancies  that,   so   soft 

an'  silent  troop, 
Acrost  an'  old  man's  eyesight  an'  jist  fade  away 

off  yender, 

Look    sweetest   frum    the    settle  on  the  old  back 
stoop  ! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    1x5 

The  Nursery  Battle. 

IHHERE'S  a  battle  that's  waged  without 


Away  from  cantonments  of  men; 
No  heroes  to  figure  in  story 

Or  claim  the  historian's  pen; 
The  battlefield  ?  Here  by  the  fire. 

The  time  ?  When  the  shadows  creep  out, 
Then  I  hear  the  soldiers  conspire 
And  hear  their  chief  officer  shout: 
"Forward,  kids,  guide  right — 
Let's  have  a  tickle  fight!" 

They  come  pajama-ed  and  nighty-ed, 

I  hear  their  soft  tread  in  the  hall — 
(But,  of  course,  they  mustn't  be  sighted 

At  risk  of  spoiling  it  all!) 
Their  chieftain,  he  is  the  oldest, 

His  aide  is  the  next  little  lad 
And  the  army — God  bless  it! — is  boldest, 

The  baby,  the  pet  of  its  dad! 
Still  on,  "Guide  right — 
Now  to  have  a  tickle  fight!" 

The  onslaught  is  more  than  I  bargain! 

No  martyr  more  freely  has  bled! 
But  I'm  caught  by  the  narrowest  margin — 

The  army  sits  down  on  my  head! 
And  they  torture  their  captive  outrageous 

When  once  they  subject  him  like  this, 
Till  the  clock  calls  the  soldiers  courageous 

And  the  army's  dismissed  with  a  kiss. 
"Night,  dad,  good-night — 
We  won  the  tickle  fight!" 


n6        SWA  ZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


To  your  rest  and  God  keep  every  laddie, 

Each  brave,  curly  head  of  the  line; 
Ho,  you  think  that  you  won  from  your  daddy 

But  the  spoils  of  the  battle  are  mine! 
And  the  fruits  I  shall  cherish  forever, 

And  down  through  the  haze  and  the  years, 
I  shall  see  your  bright  faces  whenever 

Your  battle-cry  sounds  in  my  ears: 
"Forward,  kids,  guide  right — 
Let's  have  a  tickle  fight!" 


The  Lonely  Man. 

r\ON'T  want  t*  be  no  prince  ner  king, 
^"^     Ner  armurd  knight  ner  anything 
'Ats  got  a  title  hitched  tew  it — 

Don't  hanker  after  that  a  bit! 
Don't  want  no  flunkies  standin'  'roun' 

T  bow  an'  scrape  an'  mop  the  groun' 

'N  call  me  "king"  er  sumpin  wuss; 

I  'low  I  wudn't  give  a  cuss 
T*  be  a  "jedge"  er  even  "squire," 

Er  "  Congersmun, "  er  mebbe  higher, 
But — (durn  thet  sweat-bug  in  my  eye!) — 
There's  times  I  jist  swell  up  an*  cry 

T'  have  sum  dad-burned  little  tad 

Look  up  at  me  an'  call  me  "Dad!" 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    127 

Folks  Back  Home. 

TT'S  mighty  good  a-gittin'  back  to  see 
•*     The  fokes  an'  things  familyur-like  to  me, 
Espeshully  since  I've  been  gone  away 
Fer  quite  a  spell  o'  years;  I  want  t'  say 
There's  nuthin'  does  me  nowhere  nigh  sich  good 
Ez  gittin'  back  in  air  ol'  naybur-hood 
Where  I  wuz  born,  brung  up  an'  orter  staid; 
"It  makes  a  feller  young,"  I  allus  say-ed. 

I  like  to  loaf  around  the  ol'  hotel 

'N  gas  Grip  Martin,  mebbe — hear  him  tell 

Them  ol'-time  stories  like  he  allus  does 

An'  how  things  looked  afore  the  fire  was 

In  '84;  an'  how,  afore  it  got 

Cooled  off  a  bit  Nobe  Terrell  went  an'   bought 

Sum  hemlock  boards   an*  built  a  new  store  where 

The  Soldiers  Monyment  stands  now — rite  there  I 

I  like  t'  sort  o'  stretch  my  hide  an*  hoof 

In  Billy  Ross's  store  an'  talk  of  Rufe 

An*  Billy  Braden,  too;  they  played — less  see — 

The  tuba  horn  an'  drum,  respectively, 

In  air  old  band — O  years  an'  years  ago! — 

But  sumtimes  when  I  listen,  soft  an'  low 

I  seem  t'  hear  their  music,  an'  I  get 

The  idee  in  my  head  they're  playin'  yetl 

I  like  t'  meet  'em  all,  but  seems  t'  me 
There's  sum  o'  them  whose  blunt  veracity 
I  can't  endorse — I  mean  the  ones  who  say: 
"I  swan,  my  boy — I  swanny! — but  you're  grayl" 
But  others  of  'em — them  I  like  t'  hear — 
Say,  "Sakes  alive,  you're  younger  every  year!" 
The  tarnal  liars!     But  sumhow,  when  I  jest 
Get  thinkin'  on't,  /  like  them  liars  best/ 


128   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Come  Back  Again. 

/"^OME,  grand-dad,  please  come  back  agin,  and 
^"•^      all  you  old-home  fokes, 

You  Wigginses  an*  Bannisters,  an'  Mary  Ellen, 

too, 
Less  set  around  the  livin'  room  an'  have  charades 

an'  jokes 
And  gas  about  the  nayburhood  jest  like  we  used 

t'  do; 

I  want  t'  hear  again  about  the  bear  Hi  Burden  shot, 
Whare  Himses  house  is  standin'  now,  an'  when 

y'  finish,  jest 
Switch  off  an'  tell  'bout  Herkimer  whare  you  lived 

'fore  y'  got 

The   idee    in    your   head  that  you  wud  like  t' 
come  out  West. 

An'  tell  us  'bout  your  journey  here,  an*  when  the 

army  was 
An'   how  you    marched  t'  Richmond  with  the 

1 6th  Illinoy, 
How  grandma    hauled   the   cordwood    after   you 

enlisted,  'cause 
They's  no  one   here  t'  do  it  durin'  the  army — 

man  er  boy; 
Y'  mind  that  Hampshire  feller  that  y'  used  t'  tell 

about 
They    captured    after    Gettysburg   along  with 

'Bige  an'  you, 
An'  he  dug  out  o'  Libby  an'  went  back  an'  he'ped 

you  out, 

An'  all  o'  you  was  safe  an' sound  ?    Well,  tell 
that  story,  too! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    129 


An'  tell  us  'bout  the  doin's  here  when  you  come 

marchin'  home, 
An'   all    that    you     remember  of  the    speech 

Jedge  Acker  made 
'Bout   copperheads    an'   stay-at-homes,    an'   then 

recite  that  pome 
That   Lidy  wrote  when  you  come  back;  "The 

Soldiers'  Last  Parade"; 
Come,  tell  us  all  you  used  t'  tell,  when  we  was 

gethered  here, 
'Bout  fokes  an'  things  that  used  t'  be  in  that  old 

airly  day — 
I'll   call   'em   back,   the  Wigginses   an'   all  them 

nayburs  dear — 

They're   only   jest    beyant  a  spell — beyant  the 
evenin's  grey. 

An'  when  the  talk  an'  embers  drap  t'  jest  a    glow, 

er  less, 
We'll  gether  'round  the  organ  here,  jist  like  we 

used  t'  do, 
An'  sing  the  songs  that  mother  loved,  that  spoke 

her  tenderness, 
"The  Gipsy  Boy,"  " Kentucky  Home,  "an' "I 

Shall  Wait  Fer  You," 
An'  all  them  songs!     O  please  come  back,   it's 

only  jest  a  step, 
An'  take  my  hand  an'  speak  t'  me  an'  clear  my 

dimmin'  sight, 
An'  let  these  golden  mem'ries  that  I've  cherished 

an'  I've  kep' 

Fer  all  these  years,  be  real  again,  an'  mine — fer 
jest  t'  night! 


130        SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Christmas  Eve  in  the  Old 
Manse. 

T^HE  flame  burns  low  in  the  friendly  grate 
•"•      And,  as  in  dreams,  from  the  magic  haze 
They  step  with  a  carriage  gallant,  sedate, 

The  maids  and  men  of  the  olden  days; 
The  manse  is  silent  and  drear  within — 

The  embers  drop  to  a  throbbing  glow — 
'Tis  midnight  strikes,  and  then  begin 

The  Christmas  revels  of  Long  Ago. 

Fair  maids  look  down  from  the  ancient  walls, 

Milady  steps  from  her  golden  frame 
To  join  her  lord  in  the  musty  halls 

In  minuet  or  a  madcap  game; 
Bright  eyes  repeat  what  the  roses  said 

And  upturn  under  the  mistletoe 
Till  lips  meet  lips  that  are  cold  and  dead 

And  turned  to  dust  since  the  Long  Ago. 

From  out  the  nooks  of  the  years  they  come, 

The  soldiers,  brave,  in  their  trappings  gay — 
Come  back  from  the  trumpet  and  throbbing  drum 

To  eyes  that  wept  when  they  marched  away; 
Their  dreams  of  valor  have  fled  tonight, 

And  now  when  the  shadows  softly  steal, 
Each  clasps  the  one  of  his  heart's  delight 

To  dance  his  love  in  the  Christmas  reel. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    131 


And  then  to  the  board,  to  the  festal  place, 

A  feast  of  beauty  and  wine  and  wit, 
Where  quip  meets  quip  and  each  smiling  face 

Reflects  the  joy  that  beams  on  it: 
A  moment  the  revels  cease;  each  glass 

Is  raised  and  vies  with  the  lips  it  nears — 
A  sparkling  toast  from  gallant  and  lass 

To  Christmas  Eves  of  the  future  years. 

But  see,  a  queen  with  a  silver  staff 

Stills  Christmas  cheer  and  marshals  all — 
Bids  host  and  guests,  with  a  mocking  laugh, 

To  follow  on  through  the  hollow  hall; 
The  fairy  tread  of  their  slippered  feet 

Sounds  faint  beyond  where  the  embers  glow, 
As  back  they  dance  to  the  grave's  retreat, 

The  Christmas  sprites  of  the  Long  Agol 

L'ENVOI. 

Old  manse,  how  lonely  it  is  tonight! 

How  far  it  seems  to  tomorrow's  dawn! 
The  embers  die  and,  from  out  my  sight, 

Fade  Christmas  revels  of  Days  Long  Gone! 


132   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


An  Investment. 

I  bought  some  stock  upon  the  mart,  no  sordid 

money-bearer, 
With   coupons  on  and  countersigned  and  sealed 

with  careful  heed, 

That  I  must  hold  by  lock  and  key  and  suffer  con 
stant  terror 
For  fear  some  person  purloins  it  and  leaves  me 

poor  indeed! 
Ah,  no,  the  stock  I  bought  today  was  not  that  kind 

of  treasure, 
I  have  no  means  by  which  to  get  that  special 

class  of  fee, 
Nor  do  I    care!     My   stock   is   in   the   Bank   of 

Children's  Pleasure. 

That  always  pays  the  greatest  rate  of  dividends 
to  me! 

My  purchase  was  a  woolly  dog,  a  drum,  a  cart  and 

dolly, 
A  Beau  Brummell   in  gaudy  vest   upon  some 

magic  strings, 
A  manikin  in  red,  and  crowned  with  mistletoe  and 

holly, 
A  wond'rous  book,   an    expose  of  fairy  queens 

and  kings; 
A  toy  boat  with  luffing  sail  for  strange,  uncharted 

oceans, 
With  rudder  true  and  fearless  crew  and  cables 

always  taut, 
A  prancing  horse  and  building  blocks,  and  hosts 

of  childish  notions, 

All  struck  my  reckless  fancy  as  investments  and 
I  bought.  ' 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    133 


Ah,  poor,  indeed,  is  he  who  gets  his  chief  or  only 

pleasure 
From  clipping  coupons  from  his  bonds  that  lie 

in  musty  piles! 
So  poorly  is  he  recompensed,  and,  O  how  small 

the  measure 

Of  gain  he  gets  when  it's  compared  to  child 
hood's  happy  smiles! 

I  pity  him!   I  envy  ?   No,  all  envy  dies  aborning — 
All   doubt   concerning  which   of  us  the  wisest 

choice  has  made 
Will    disappear    on    Christmas — in    the    nursery 

Christmas  morning — 

Amid  the  joy  of  children  where  my  dividends 
are  paid! 


134        SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


John  Thompkins'  Fiddlin'." 

TOHN  Thompkins  take  yer  fiddle  down — 
**     It's  been  so  long  ago 
I  seed  y'  wrassle  her  aroun' 

An'  heerd  y'  tromp  her  bow, 
'At  all  the  notes  y'  conjured  then 
Sound  further  off  each  day,  an'  when 
I  ast  ye,  John,  t'  play  again, 

Yew  understand,  I  know. 

I  want  t'  hear  y'  take  an'  play 

Them  tunes  I  understand, 
That  "Ryestraw"  jig  an'  "Trainin'  Day" 

An'  "Far  Frum  Native  Land." 
An'  that  "My  Saylor's  On  the  Sea," 
An'  "Nellie  Gray"  an'  "Hummin'  Bee" 
O,  them's  the  tunes  t'  play  fer  me, 

John  Thompkins,  try  yer  hand! 

Jes'  tune  her  up  untwell  she  screams 

Fer  them  'at's  livin',  John, 
Then  drap  her  'twell  she  chords  with  dreams 

Fer  them  we  knowed  'at's  gone; 
Jes'  take  her  down  frum  off  the  shelf 
An'  rosum  up  her  bowstring  'twell  'f 
She's  let  alone  she'll  play  herself, 

Jes'  on —  an*  on —  an'  on — 


John   Thompkins'  Fiddlin' 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    137 


It's  long  ago  I  heerd  y',  John, 

There's  ages  passed  since  then, 
But  still  yer  notes  jes'  linger  on 

In  Memory,  an'  when 
The  bluebirds  sing,  it  seems  their  vent 
Is  nuthin'  but  the  notes  unspent 
Persarved  frum  your  ol'  insterment — 
I  wish  y'd  play  again! 


138    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Old  Ben  Tarr's  Idee. 

r  I  ''HE  man  who  smiles  an'  sez  "Amen" 
•*•      When  rain's  a-fallin',  same  ez  when 
The  sun  is  shinin',  seems  t'  me 

Hez  got  about  the  right  idee — 
Who's  never  faultin'  Providence 

Per  things  it  sends.     In  consequence, 
I  reckin  he  is  God's  own  ch'ice, 

An'  fair  well  on  to'rds  Paradise. 

I  b'lieve  the  plainest  man,  whose  plumb 

Hangs  true  along  his  life  at  hum — 
Who's  square  with  men  in  day's  affairs 

An'  fair  with  God  in  evenin'  prayers — 
Who  sleeps  an'  leaves  his  latch  unslung 

Fer  ennything  he's  ever  done — 
Now  such  a  man,  it  seems  t'  me, 

Ain't  needin'  much  filosophy! 

I  argy  he  who  duz  his  best 

An'  trusts  in  Him  fer  all  the  rest — 
Who  don't  doubt  Jonah  and  the  whale 

But  b'lieves  it  cuz  it's  God's  own  tale — 
Though  humble  is  thet  man,  an'  may 

Have  failed  in  every  airthly  way, 
Yet,  peer  he  is  to  you  an'  I, 

An'  fit  as  saints  t'  up  an'  die  ! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS   139 

A  Man. 

"P\ON'T  tell  me  that  his  faith  was  true, 
•*-^     Nor  that  his  trust  was  firm,  nor  laud 
His  virtues,  as  they  seem  to  you, 

Nor  praise  his  honesty  with  God. 

For  praise  of  these  is  small  indeed; 

The  while  he  lived  his  earthly  span 
He  only  kept  a  given  creed, 

And  God  expects  as  much  of  man. 

But  tell  me,  was  it  in  his  heart 

To  leave  his  beaten  path,  and  seek 

Less  happy  souls  and  take  their  part  ? — 
To  give  his  might  to  help  the  weak  ? 

Was  he  the  man  who  measured  life 

In  dollars,  cents  and  days  and  years? 

Or  gauged,  beyond  the  sordid  strife, 

In  joys  and  sorrows,  smiles  and  tears  ? 

Did  he  perceive,  and  love  to  read, 

The  message,  sweet,  each  flower  brings  ? 

And  did  he  pause  in  life  to  heed 

And  learn  to  love  God's  little  things  ? 

Was  woman's  faithful  love  the  best 
Of  all  his  life  gave  him  of  good  ? 

And  what  found  he  the  tenderest  ? — 
The  soft  caress  of  babyhood  ? 

The  while  his  sands  are  ebbing  low 

And  earth  and  all  around  grow  dim, 

Please  tell  me,  friend,  so  I  may  know 

A  man  greets  death,  and  weep  for  him. 


140    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Martial  Band  from  Big  Elm 
Flat. 


,  mebbe  they  don't,  jist  as  yew  say, 
Trill  their  cadenzers  'n  whirligigs.     They 
Ain't  up  t'  it,  mebbe  —  'tain't  zackly  their  kin', 

'N  mebbe  yer  idee  is  duffurnt  'n  mine; 
Their  music  sounds  sweet  t'  my  tarnal  old  ears  — 
It  carries  me  back'urds  fer  forty-odd  years  — 
'N  I'll  tell  y'  aforehandt,  I'll  wallop  y'  one 
If  y'  don't  stop  bedevilin'  an'  pokin'  yer  fun 
At  the  "rooty-toot-toot," 
'N  the"ratty-tat-tat" 
Of  themarshul  band  frum  Big  Ellum  Flat! 

I  'low  they  ain't  straight  on  the  "p"  an'  the  "q" 

'N  don't  ack  as  pert  as  yer  city  bands  do, 
But  they  got  the  knack  o'  playin'  t'  please 

'N  puttin'  the  limber  juice  back  in  yer  knees  — 
"The  Camptown  Races"  an'  "  Rye-straw,  "  tew, 

'N  all  them  old  ones  that  ferever  is  new; 
An'  if  it  ain't  music,  whatever  it  be, 

It's  tarnation  pleasin'  t'  fellers  like  me  — 
Is  that  "rooty-toot-toot," 
'N  the  "  ratty-tat-tat  " 
Of  the  marshul  band  frum  Big  Ellum  Flat. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    141 


Another  reason  I  lean  tew  'em  for, 

Is  'cause  I  follered  'em  all  thru    the  war — 
An'  fit  t'  their  music  more'n  wunct,  I  declare — 
They  was  more  of  'em  then — hain't  all   of  'em 

there; 
Most  of  'em's  gone.     Eh  ?    Never  mind,  son, 

Y'  needn't  apolergize  fer  pokin'  yer  fun, 
I  knowed  y'  wudn't  if  ye'd  jist  understand 

'N  knowed  what  I    knowed   'bout    that   little 
band — 

With  its, "rooty-toot-toot," 
'N  its  "ratty-tat-tat" — 
The  marshul  band  frum  Big  Ellum  Flat. 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Old  Ben  Tarr's  Filosofy. 

T>LESSED  is  thet  mortul  who 
•^^     Has  lived  his  life,  an',  gittin'  thue, 
Kin  wander  back'urds  in  his  mind 
T'  whare  a  cottage  stands,  all  vined 
With  trumpet  flowers,  red  an'  white, 
Er  mornin'  glories  after  night — 

Blessed  is  thet  man,  I  say. 

Blesseder  by  far  is  he, 
Still  havin'  her,  who  tenderly 
He's  loved  an'  kep'  frum  passin'  harm, 
Kin  take  her  by  the  willin'  arm 
An'  lead  her  tew  them  joys  again — 
The  joys  made  fer  simple  men — 
Blesseder  by  far  is  he. 

But  blesseder  than  all  is  he, 
Who,  closin'  of  his  eyes,  kin  see 
The  evening  sun  kiss  golden  hair 
Of  youngsters  'round  his  cottage  thare, 
'N  have  sum  dad-burned  little  chap 
Cum  thru  the  years  an'  whisper:     "Pap"- 
Blesseder  than  all  is  he! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    143 


An  Old  Man's  Deductions. 

I"  dunno,  but  it  seems  ter  me, 
•*•     Things  ain't  like  they  uster  be — 
Folks  wuz  diffurnt,  too,  I  'low, 
Years  ago  than  they  be  now  I 

Uster  be  sum  kindness  showed — 
Folks  y'  mebbe  never  knowed 

Wa'n't    s'  stuckup-like  an'  classed — 
Bowed  t'  ever'  soul  they  passed! 

Skies  don't  shine  one  haff  s'  blue 

'Pears-like,  as  they  uster  do; 
Each  fermilyur  field  an'  nook 

'S  changed  frum  how  it  uster  look. 

Gals  ain't  haff  s'  shy  an'  pert  's 
When  they  wore  them  flarin'  skirts, 

Pantelets  an'  all  the  rest — 

Old  time  gal  's  what  I  like  best! 

Weather's  got  the  same  idee — 
Great  jemmimy,  seems  t'  me, 

Orgust  hain't  one  haff  the  git 
Up  an'  git  it  bad  to  it! 

I  dunno,  but  thinkin'  'long, 

Mebbe  'tain't  the  things  that's  wrong — 
After  all,  perhaps  it's  me 

Changed  frum  what  I  uster  be! 


144   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


The  Old  Home  Town. 

r  I  "'HE  thoughts  of   home,  they  seem   to  bloom 
•*•      and  grow 

As  faithfully  as  blossoms  used  to  blow 
And  drop  away,  to  follow  in  the  fall 
With  ripened  fruit  aplenty  and  for  all; 
So  thoughts  of  home  will  linger  for  a  bit, 
Then  fade,  and  we  are  happier  for  it. 

****** 

The  village  street  that  came  a-winding  down 
Since  stage  coach  days,  whence  gypsies  came  to 

town, 

The  fright  and  fear  of  children  there  at  play — 
They  stopped  to  "feed"  then  on  its  creaking  way 
Their  caravan  went,  its  white  tops  showing  still 
For  miles  away,  beyond  the  tow'ring  hill 
That  rose  abrupt,  obscuring  from  our  eyes 
The  world  beyond  and  all  its  glad  surprise. 
The  "Old  Main  Road"  'twas  called  and,  wending 

down, 

Audaciously,  it  cleft  the  little  town 
To  two   quaint   streets   where  village  merchants 

thrived, 

And  where — it  seemed — the  care  free  people  hived 
On  summer  days  or  cheated  summer  showers, 
And  whiled  away,  and  talked,  the  blessed  hours. 
A  tinshop  here,  and  there,  with  cheery  ring, 
The  blacksmith  toiled  and  did  his  part  to  sing 
The  day  away;  and  stealing  o'er  the  hill, 
O'er  clover  bloom  and  fields,  the  ancient  mill 
Sent  out  its  song,  a  crooning  soft  and  low — 
It  sang  at  work  and  let  the  village  know; 


55 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    147 


And  yet  'twas  still — the  sounds  of  toil  were  few — 
Familiar  sounds  that  all  the  village  knew! 
'Round  open  doors  were  grouped  the  patriarchs, 
The  older  men — the  group  that  ever  marks 
The  village  life — and  talked  of  other  years 
When  war  was  rife  and  all  was  woe  and  tears; 
And  oftentimes  their  fancies,  turned  to  mirth, 
Some  new  device,  some  new-found  trick  gave  birth — 
By  subtle  twist  their  crooked  canes  made  fast 
'Round  sunburned  legs  of  freckled  boys  who  passed! 
The  freckled  boys  who  found  the  path  unseen 
That  led  away,  through  pasture  and  ravine, 
To  Scouller's  Mill  where  youngsters  got  their  dole 
Of  boyhood  fun  beside  the  swimming  hole. 

******* 
And  this  was  home,  where  evening  stars  looked 

down 

Their  kindliest  and  blessed  the  Old  Home  Town — 
The  place  of  dream  that  we  remember  yet 
And  cherish  still  and  never  can  forget! 


I48   SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Friends. 

TX7HEN  Fortune  smiled 

And  days  were  bright,  it  seemed 
I  had  more  worthy  friends  than  I  had  dreamed, 
Who  clustered  'round,  felicitating  me, 
Whose  joy  at  my  good  fortune  seemed  to  be 
Without  an  end. 

When  Fortune  frowned! 

I  know  what  you  would  say: 
"They  shunned  you  then  and  let  you  go  your 

way. " 

Not  so!    Not  one  of  them  but  heard  my  call 
Of  dire  distress,  and  came,  for  after  all 
A  friend's  a  friend! 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    149 


To  a  Boy. 


a  little  freckled  kid, 
Let  us  go  together 
Swingin'  down  a  lane  again, 
Smilin'  as  the  weather. 

Let  us  go  beyond  the  wood, 
Where  there's  nun  t'  bother  — 

Whilse  we  smoke  some  mullin-leaf 
Keep  an  eye  on  father! 

Take  me  to  yer  swimmin'  hole  — 
Lemme  have  my  "ruthers"  — 

Don't  fergit  t'  dry  our  hair  — 
Mothers  will  be  mothers! 

Take  me  home  again  at  night, 
When  the  cricket  's  crickin'  — 

Lemme  go  today  with  you, 
An'  I'll  take  the  lickin'l 


150    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Going  to  Town  With  Pa. 

T  TELL  you  what  I  liked  to  do 
•*•     When  I  was  'bout  as  big  as  you, 

Was  go  t'  town  with  pa! 
They  ain't  been  nuthin'  'fore  or  sence, 
Of  nigh  one  half  the  consequence, 
Nor  half  s'  full  of  pure  joy 
As  when  my  mother'd  holler:     "Boy, 
It's  brekfus  time,  nigh  five  o'clock — 
'F  y'll  hurry  up  an'  feed  the  stock 

Y'  kin  go  t'  town  with  pa." 

Beyond  the  ridge  the  white  road  bent — 
The  furthest  then  I'd  ever  went  ! 

An'  then  went  lea  din'  down 
Past  Jackson's  Crick  an'  Possum  Gap, 
Through  woods  so  dark  I  hung  t'  pap, 
An'  ever*  step  showed  more  an'  more 
The  world  I'd  never  knowed  before; 
Past  fields  o'  wavin'  wheat  an'  flax 
An'  then  across  the  railroad  tracks, 

An'  then — t'  Burgettstown! 

Ah,  Burgettstown!     Me-trop-o-les 
Of  all  my  youthful  dreams,  I  gess, 

Nun  half  so  great  cud  be! 
The  biggest  millwheel  ever  wrought 
Was  turned  to  grind  the  grist  we  brought! 
The  biggest  things  the  world  aroun' 
I  saw  right  thare  in  Burgettstown — 
No  buildin's  half  so  big  an'  tall! 
It  seemed  that  there  was  nuthin'  small — 

Exceptin'  pa  an'  me! 


'Beyond  the  ridge   the  white  road  bent,' 


SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS    153 


The  sun'd  be  edgin'  to'rds  the  West 
When  pa'd  allow:     "Well,  bub,  you  best, 

Climb  up  here  with  yer  pa," 
An'  out  from  'neath  the  seat  'ud  cum 
The  snack  that  pa  had  brought  from  hum — 
Sum  hard-biled  eggs  an'  ginger  snaps 
Was  allus  fa-vor-ites  o'  pap's — 
An'  I'd  eat,  too,  till  I  cudn't  see, 
An'  be  plum  glad,  as  glad  cud  be, 

T'  git  back  hum  t'  ma! 


154    SWAZY  FOLKS  AND  OTHERS 


Two  Songs. 

A    singer  touched  a  lofty  note — 
•*•  ^     An  eerie  something  far  from  me — 
That  seemed  through  broadest  space  to  float 

And  echo  back  from  land  and  sea; 
It  was  so  rich  and  full  and  clear, 
It  pleased  my  heart  and  made  me  cheer. 

Then  through  the  years  another  rang — 
A  song  borne  up  on  mem'ry's  wings, 

A  lullaby  my  mother  sang 

Of  cradle  time  and  homely  things; 

It  roused  the  memories  that  sleep 

And  touched  my  heart  and  made  me  weepl 


LO.  GO. 

224  W.  F  ay 

Glendale,  Calif.  91204 
Phone:  CT  4-( 


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